


Empyrean

by quillquiver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Astronomy, Cas makes friends with an elk, Charlie is a matchmaker and a cockblock all in one, Dean isn't a hunter, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Extended Torture, Fallen Star Castiel, Fluff and Angst, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Language of Flowers, Like it's pretty dark, M/M, Rufus Turner's Cabin, Temporary Character Death, The sexual assault is NOT Dean/Cas, Torture, but there's a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 60,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillquiver/pseuds/quillquiver
Summary: There is a smoking crater off Route 50…A star falls from the sky, and people screech to a stop on the highway. Emergency vehicles are dispatched. Journalists abandon their programming halfway through the nightly news. In a nondescript parking garage, a team of government operatives load dart guns and pile into a black sedan.Impact. The earth shakes. The ground catches fire.The entire planet holds its breath, cherishing each moment the world remains unchanged because they should have gone the way of the dinosaurs.But it isn’t unchanged. There is a smoking crater off Route 50.…And it’s empty.Or:Where Cas is a fallen star (read: alien) who hates humanity, Dean is a man with a complicated past, and Charlie is living in what she thinks is a Neil Gaiman novel, but is actually a Guillermo Del Toro film.





	1. Empyrean

**Author's Note:**

> My first big bang ever! I'll get all teary in the end notes, but for now: huge thank you so much to my wonderful and so very patient beta, doekent ([tumblr](https://doekent.tumblr.com/) | [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unlucky_charm/pseuds/Unlucky_charm>ao3</a>\),%20and%20a%20large%20freaking%20round%20of%20applause%20for%20aceriee%20\(<%20a%20href=)), who created literally the most gorgeous art to ever art for this fic! You can find a link to her art post on tumblr and on ao3 below.
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> [Art on tumblr](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/dcbb18ectw)  
> [Art on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16283708)
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> ****PLEASE READ THE TAGS. I warn for rape/sexual assault and for graphic violence. For a description of the warnings, see the end notes. I'll also warn in the chapter notes.****

 

****

 

****DAY ZERO (A)** **

_“I would like to die on Mars. Just not on impact.”_

                                              — Elon Musk

 

 

The star enters the exosphere at an approximate velocity of 6.835 miles per second—24,624 miles an hour, ignoring acceleration due to gravity and air resistance—and in the seconds that follow, that’s all there is. By the time it is halfway through the thermosphere, it’s going so fast it glows blue.

It braces itself upon impact, exactly 39°13'58.8" North and 112°25'45.4" West, crushing ancient rock to dust beneath the force of its landing. The earth shakes. Tumbleweeds catch fire. A new spring bubbles up from the ground to wet the arid dirt.

And in the middle of it all: a man.

Not truly. Forced into the delicate knitting of flesh and bone as he hit the ground, the star himself is bruised and bloody; dented and disoriented in his mortal packaging. It is dark in a way he has never felt before, and cold. There are smells here, too, both pleasant and otherwise, but _strong_. As he pulls himself to shaking legs, the star stumbles, unused to interacting with gravity in such an immediate way. Clawing up out of the blackness, his breath hitches at the myriad of lights and sharp sounds approaching rapidly from the horizon. He feels prickly and short of breath, suddenly hot and cold all at the same time.

If there is one thing the star has learnt from observing this planet, it is that the species ruling it is cruel in its curiosity. He crawls on weak hands and knees until he finds a rocky outcropping large enough to hide behind, too exhausted and focused to notice the trail of greenery that follows. 

Castiel, sequence star in the Milky Way galaxy, has watched the birth of this and every planet in its system. In his true form, he is the essence of power and creation and life… but here? Castiel feels too weak to do much else but lay prone, lacerations bleeding sluggishly as he pulls laboured, rattling breaths into his lungs. It’s bothersome to have to breathe in general, but he feels like he’s just collided with a black hole. 

When a human eventually finds his hiding place, Castiel eyes him warily, eyes narrowed to slits. The first thought he has is that he hopes his death is swift. He doesn’t have time for a second before his body gives out and the world goes dark.

 

  


 

 

**DAY ZERO (B)**

 

_“There may be aliens in our Milky Way galaxy, and there are billions of other galaxies. The probability is almost certain that there is life somewhere in space.”_

                                                                                                                                                                                                         — Buzz Aldrin  


 

“Holy shit, Dean, holy _shit_ —”

Dean Winchester slams on the breaks, swerving to a stop on the side of a dusty desert road, green eyes glued to horizon. Route 50 is pretty sparse… which makes it twice as fucking scary when the blue inferno falling from the sky disappears just beyond the horizon line. A second later, the ground rumbles like maybe it’ll split in two. Dean holds his breath.

This was not how tonight was supposed to go. They were _supposed_ to have a nice, leisurely two-day drive back from Reno Con and bicker about whether or not Charlie really slept with Gina Torres. Instead,  the spandex of his goddamn Cap suit is riding up his ass and he’s waiting for the freaking world to end.

When all systems seem to be a go, Charlie slumps against Baby’s leather, shaking her head. “For a second there, I thought we’d been hit by the Death Star.”

“Yeah, well, we ain’t out of the woods yet. It might be _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_.”

“I’m rooting for _E.T._ ”

Dean’s laugh is just a little too high to be considered calm. “As long as we’re not at the beginning of _Cloverfield_.”

He carefully maneuvers back onto the highway, crawling forward another five feet before drifting to a stop. He can feel Charlie staring at the side of his face. “Anyway,” he swallows. “It’s prob’ly just, like, a huge chunk’a rock anyway.”

“Yeah,” she replies, clearing her throat to steady her voice. “Yeah. And… if we aren’t dead by now we should be good, right? Theoretically.”

“Theoretically,” Dean agrees. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “Things… crash into planets all the time. Pretty amazing it hasn’t happened sooner.”

“Exactly.”

It takes a good fifteen minutes of driving at a snail’s pace before either of them are comfortable enough to climb towards the speed limit, but by the time they get there, the lights are blinding.

“Jesus fuck,” Dean breathes. Charlie reaches across the benchseat and grabs his bicep.

What’s fucked up isn’t the fact that there are enough emergency vehicles ahead to give Vegas a run for its money. No, what’s fucked is that to the right of those emergency vehicles is a huge fuckin’ pile of rock and dirt. What’s fucked is that the road is half torn up. And what’s _fucked_ is that there is a crater roughly the size of a Costco in Dean’s current field of vision.

But the only way back home is through, unless they wanna head back to Reno and loop around to the 80.

Dean gives her a little more gas, coming to a stop near an ambulance. Charlie, still holding his shoulder, shoots him a look of disbelief when he kills the engine. “What the fuck, Dean? Let’s _go_.”

“C’mon, they might need help, Charlie.”

“There are probably enough paramedics and police here to run a small country!”

“Yeah, well. Still.”

“Oh my god, this is your fucking night of the living dead training, isn’t it? You _do not_ need to see if this is a threat, Dean. People are taking care of it.”

Chewing his lip, Dean opens the door and gets out, meeting Charlie’s wide eyes through the dim light of the car. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

Her foot shoots out to catch the door before it closes. Dean squawks indignantly at the dusty print she leaves behind. “I’m coming with.”

“What? No.”

“Uh— _yeah_ , I am.” When she moves to get out, Dean pushes against her shoulders.

“Uh, _no_ , you’re not. If shit hits the fan, I don’t want you involved.”

“If shit hits the fan,” she repeats. “You’ll need backup.”

“I’ll have all the Emergency folks,” Dean reasons, pointing a fingers towards the lights. “’Sides, I need you, uh… as the getaway car. If things go sideways.”

Charlie narrows her eyes. “I acknowledge that this is a bribe, and I am taking it _only_ because you’re letting me drive your car. Clear?”

“As crystal.”

“And you’ll let me take her when I finally ask Dorothy out. She thinks muscle cars are hot.”

Dean sighs. “…Fine.”

“Good.” Reaching forward, she slams the door and rolls down the window. “You’re so lucky I can be bought.”

“Yeah yeah. I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

“…Hey, Dean.”

Dean turns.

“Just—be careful.”

“Please,” Dean smirks. “Careful’s my middle name.”

Thing is, Dean never makes it to the EMTs. There’s a wilting yellow flower right beside his blue spray-painted sneaker. It doesn’t look like a desert flower: too delicate, not waxy, just… not native to the area. Which is weird, definitely, because the desert isn’t a place where pretty little yellow flowers just show up. There’s another just beyond the road, and more beyond that. It actually—it looks like there’s a line of them, kinda, with fuzzy, caterpillar-looking herbs interspersed among them. Frowning, Dean stops in his tracks, crouching down to touch the plants.  

Something ain’t right.

_You’re the first line of defense, son, you got that?_

Staring at the weird, sloppy line of out-of-place vegetation is like a waking nightmare. Like being eight years old again and holding a shotgun too big for him to carry.

_You’re a protector. Sammy’s protector._

He remembers asking if he was a superhero. Ironic, ain’t it, considering what he’s become. Dad had given him that blank, wide, toothy grin he always did—the one Dean’d come to understand meant John Winchester was rotting inside.

_You take care of your brother, Dean. That’s your responsibility. But ain’t no one else gonna protect the world, so you gotta do that, too._

Dean grits his teeth.

_And no one’s gonna thank you. World’s full of ungrateful dicks who’ll call you crazy, even. But we know, don’t we? We know what’s really out there. We know we gotta fight._

Even though his daddy’s well and truly gone—he buried him himself—it’s with his voice in his head that Dean steps forward. He crushes some of the unnatural greenery with some kind of misplaced sense of vengeance, squeezing his fists in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension in his chest. The moon paints everything in a flat, cold light, and it isn’t until he’s about a quarter of a mile off the road that he realizes he didn’t even think to bring a flashlight because of its brightness. Such a blatant oversight causes him to reach for the penknife in his boots, only to realize… he’s a thirty-one year old man dressed in blue spandex and doesn’t even have a toothpick on him, let alone any type of useable weapon. He even forgot the goddamn shield he spent like a week making. Fuck.

But there’s no way he’ll be able to convince Charlie to wait in the car a second time, so he bites the goddamn bullet and goes in blind.

Dean walks until he can haul himself up to see beyond the lip of the crater, frowning when he sees the thing riddled with boulders and rocks. His lip stings and his face hurts and he wishes he wasn’t a stupid fucking idiot who felt the need to go down there. He’s in the middle of berating himself, walking around a boulder to get to a less steep wall of the crater, when he stops dead.

There’s a guy just… lying there. Shaking. Naked. And freaking _surrounded_ by those yellow flowers and dick herbs. He’s got cuts and bruises all over his body, but nothings looks like it’s broken—the dude’s just banged up. Probably in shock, too, the way he’s trembling.

He’s also awake.

Dean knows this ’cause he can see the bright blue of his eyes despite the fact that he shouldn’t be able to. Because those eyes are absent of anything but bone-deep exhaustion and resignation. Because their colour is bright in a way that Dean has only seen after using goddamn Photoshop, and on top of that, they’re _glowing_ like they’re in freaking _Alice in Wonderland._ Because this is the thing that came from the crater, he’s sure of it, and he should probably snap its neck while it’s weak. Because it looks like all it wants to do is die.

“Oh, _Jesus_ ,” Dean breathes.

And the alien passes out.

 

 

Castiel wakes, which is the first thing he doesn’t understand. He feels disoriented and too-warm and confined, like he wants to crawl out of the fleshy prison he’s been stuffed into. He’s moving, too, in a way that makes him feel like his stomach is turning over itself. It’s dark and the ground under him is soft and smooth, and there are… shadows, maybe, but it’s hard to tell without any light. Moving is a chore that requires so much effort Castiel grunts, causing something to move by his feet. Instinctually, he kicks out, catching an object that is warm and relatively soft. It yelps, speaking some strange, unfamiliar language as Castiel’s body is hurled to the side, almost falling off whichever perch he’s apparently been resting on. Simultaneously, something emits a loud, shrill sound underfoot. It flies across his skin and causes his muscles to seize, eyes wide in the dark as his chest heaves in panicked breaths. It was _sound_ : loud sound where Castiel has only ever known quiet. It _hurt._

“Shit. Dean, you okay?”

“Yeah, don’t stop. We’re good.”

Softer in volume but still sharp—Castiel can’t understand a thing. He can’t breathe.

He makes some sort of odd, strangled sound in the back of his throat, bare buttocks sliding uncomfortably on the surface beneath him as he tries to back away. Still unbalanced and unwieldy, he lands another kick on what he can now make out is the human male he’d seen before. He feels hot and cold all at once and there’s now a rushing in his ears. Whatever he’s backed himself up against is uncomfortable and hard, and as he looks back to see, he can’t help freezing in place.

The sky. The _stars_. They’re twinkling happily overhead, oblivious to Castiel’s tragedy. Something squeezes painfully in his chest and he lets loose a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making, something high and primal and devastated. He twists painfully against whatever is at his back, a shaking hand moving to reach out to them only to be stopped by some invisible obstacle he can touch but cannot see. The sound rips from his throat again. His vision turns blurry and Castiel panics, confused by this new development because he’s lost and terrified and now he _can’t see_ and _can’t breathe_ and—

“Shit. Charlie, pull over.”

Castiel thinks they stop moving, but he can’t be sure with sound being warped all around him. He’s going to die here. They’re _doing_ something to him and he’s _dying_. The wall behind him is suddenly gone and Castiel is manhandled to turn and breathe the cool night air, gasping and gulping the stuff until he feels his vision start to darken at the edges. The human is saying something Cas can’t make out, putting rough hands to his head, pushing it down between his own legs as a weight settles over his back—someone else’s body, he thinks, from the way they’re breathing deeply. Subconsciously, he matches their rhythm. His vision slowly returns, though that does nothing for the roiling in his stomach.

He can feel fear coalescing in heat at his fingertips and he pushes outward without knowing why, watching, petrified, as the humans are thrown from his space in a blast of cold blue light.

He runs.

Desert wind whipping at his prone form, he moves as fast as his unsteady legs can carry him, uncaring of the footprints he makes in the dirt, or of the way the bottoms of his feet sting and ache as they hit the unforgiving ground. Flowers sprout from the imprints he makes in the sand and a scorpion scurries away from his path. A desert pocket mouse watches as Castiel stumbles past and a rattlesnake is drawn to the all-encompassing, celestial heat of him. He trips and falls, crying out as he skins his knee and rocks dig into his palms, but pushes onward, desperate for—for something he cannot name as he kicks up sand and dust to get _anywhere anywhere else please take me back taKE ME BACK._

**_How?_ **

The thought has him stopped dead atop a hill and falling to his knees. His eyes are blurred again and he’s making those awful noises, curling in on himself as he shakes his head, hands turning to fists. He is trapped here, on this horrific planet, with its sickening inhabitants. Castiel turned away from Earth eons ago because of its arrogant, cruel, entitled rulers, and now he will be pulled apart by them. Eaten by them. Used for spells and magic and all sorts of other nonsense that doesn’t exist save for in deranged human minds. That was what happened to Hannah. Muriel. Inias. Balthazar.

All of them, lost to human curiousity and greed.

It’s too much.

Anger pulls at Castiel’s body now, white-hot as he glares at the landscape around him. He wishes he could wipe out this entire planet. He wishes he could send a plague on the entire human species. He wishes—he _wishes—_

Castiel pounds his glowing fists into the ground with an almighty _crack_ , causing dirt to flatten and rock to crumble under his hands.

He wishes he could _go home_.

He’s breathing erratically by the time the male and his companion find him again, wiping at his eyes with newfound despair when he finds them wet for yet another indiscernible reason. The humans seem bruised but otherwise no worse for the wear. The female limps and the male throws himself to the sand beside Castiel without a thought to the consequences. Castiel thinks this a stupid strategy, but does nothing but flinch once it happens. If he cannot go home, then he wishes, simply, for death.

But the male doesn’t kill him.

Instead, he wraps a confining piece of material around him. Cautiously shuffling forward in the dirt, the male speaks to him in a soft, unthreatening sort of voice, and Castiel turns away, unable to understand and uninterested in whatever the human has to say even if he could. His eyes drift up to the sky again, briefly, before looking at his hands. Human hands.

“Holy hell, Batman.”

Castiel can see the female move closer out of the corner of his eye. He hunches his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible as she draws nearer, arms extended. Squeezing his eyes shut, he’s convinced this is the moment they’ll capture him—do something to make him unable to move or see and carry him to their home where they—they’ll—

“Dean, are you seeing this?”

“Careful, Charlie.”

The female touches the ground right next to his leg. But instead of dirt, there are… flowers; greenery that sprouts from the ground all around him when Castiel is quite certain it shouldn’t be there. Frowning, he reaches forward to touch a tiny yellow bloom, something warm climbing up his stomach to settle in his chest as he observes how beautifully delicate it is. The flower seems to open and grow at his touch, and he hears the humans inhale sharply in surprise. Castiel, however, knows what’s happening. He’s heard of this, briefly: how stars are energy and love and life, which can translate into pure creation when they are planet-bound. He wishes he’d never had to see it for himself.

“Oh my god, this is incredible. We have to—Dean, this is—”

“Yeah, Charlie, I know, just—”

“The dude is a real-life _star_ , Dean! This is some honest-to-god Trekkie shit, oh my _god_ —”

A bright light bounces across the cracked Earth and the female stops talking immediately, both humans seemingly holding their breath until it passes. Castiel, of his part, stares blankly at his disgusting, unattractive human hands. How ugly.

“Shit, we gotta go.”

“I’ll start the car, you—”

“Yeah, I’ll grab him.”

The star barely moves when the male moves to sit in front of him. He speaks softly again, using words Castiel doesn’t recognize as he turns away. They’ll do whatever they want with him in any case, and weak as he is here, there’s no point in making a scene. What would happen differently if he did? And if he escaped, where would he go? There is _nothing_ as far as the eye can see, and stumbling upon more humans will only bring him right back to where he started. Limply, Castiel allows himself to be gathered up and led back to what he now assumes is some kind of transport. He stares blankly at the scenery as they move past, refusing to look heavenward.

Sometime between one stretch of arid ground and another, his eyes slip shut.

 

 

Dean’s been driving for about five of the ten total hours when he finally pulls into driveway of Rufus’s shitty cabin—which is impressive, because it should’ve been another twelve after they picked up the freaking _alien_ from the side of the road. Dean’s exhausted, hungry, and pretty much running on coffee and the desire to piss at this point, carelessly reaching back to shove Charlie awake before running inside to make sure the place is at least halfway decent.

It isn’t.

The cabinets are filled with rusty cans, the floorboards sound like they’re gonna cave in at any given moment, and basically all the blankets are moth-eaten. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like any of the pipes have broken and the lights work just fine, so after turning on the water and the gas to the place, he makes a quick pit stop before heading out to the car to get the alien.

The alien from goddamn outer space, who is now passed out in his backseat.

Charlie’s grumbling and squinting as she takes their crap inside, rubbing her neck and bitching about taking shifts on long car rides as she looks around the sad, dusty little living area and says: “Wow, this place is a shit hole.”

“Just shut up and get the rest of the stuff from the car. Can’t believe you talked me into comin’ here in the first place.”

“Whatever, dude. You’ll thank me when your brother gets a knock on the door from the CIA.”

“Pretty sure the CIA hasn’t prepared for this eventuality, Charlie. Just—don’t break anything, okay? The place technically ain’t mine.”

She waves him off, carefully placing the bundle of tech in her arms on the table. “The CIA has prepared for _every_ eventuality!” She calls to his retreating back, biting her lip as she turns to mutter to her equipment. “They spent millions of fracking dollars on alien research when all they had to do was make a star fall from the sky. Eat your heart out, Neil Gaiman.”

“You know, you keep saying that—calling him a star. You don’t know that,” Dean calls back.

She follows him out, frowning when he loads up a dusty sleeping bag and backpack into her arms. “Uh, human-looking thing falls from the sky? What else would you call that?”

“Oh gee, I don’t know, Charlie. How about: _fuckin’ insane?_ Or: _an alien?_ _The Thing 2.0???_ ”

“He’s a freaking star, Dean.”

“Whatever. Go put those in the house.”

She scoffs and stalks away.

At this point, Dean is sure to ignore everything Charlie says—mostly because he knows everything her info has been gathered from looking though hacked classified files, and he really can’t handle knowing how majorly fucked they are right now.

The _alien_ is leaning against Baby’s door, so he goes in from the other side to half-drag, half-carry the dude across the bench seat. He’s pretty heavy for someone who hasn’t exercised a day in his life, but he also fell from the sky and makes things grow any time he walks, so.

Dean manages to get the guy into his arms and yells enough that Charlie stops furiously typing on her laptop. She gives him a hand with the door and turning down the musty bedcovers. In the light, Dean can clearly see how torn up the alien’s hands and knees are from running away. He makes quick work of bandaging everything that needs to be covered, clinically running a washcloth over the rest of his dusty skin.

“Y’know, he’s pretty dreamy for an interstellar entity entirely composed of hydrogen and helium.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He tugs the blanket up to cover the poor dude, and when he twists to look at Charlie, she’s got half a chocolate chip cookie in her hand. “Where the hell’d you get that?”

“My suitcase? Put yours in the spare room btdubbs, I’ll take the couch so I can be close to my set-up in the kitchen… area.” She frowns, considering for a second. “Kitchenette? Is it too big to be considered a kitchenette? Whatever.” A beat. “Y’know, it really is uncanny. It’s like the universe took every physical trait you find attractive and just smushed it into this one—”

“Can we not?”

“All I’m saying is he’s a total babe—”

“Jesus fuckin’ _Christ_ , can you be serious for like two friggin’ seconds?”

On the bed, the alien groans. Both Dean and Charlie hold their breath. When it becomes clear the dude isn’t gonna wake anytime soon, Dean goes back to glaring at the best friend he’s come to think of as his sister. She rolls her eyes appropriately. “I don’t get what you’re so pissed about,” she says, lowering her voice. “This is what we’ve been waiting for! _Dean and Charlie: Partners in Crime_ —that epic adventure? This is it! And, y’know, it doesn’t hurt that the other male lead is _fine as he_ —”

“Are you kidding me?!” Dean whisper-yells back. “We don’t know if this thing shits, or drinks—we don’t even know what it eats! It could eat people, Charlie! I could’ve just tucked in some interstellar _zombie_!”

“Please—”

“How do you _know_?!” Dean hisses. “It’s powerful and clearly fuckin’ terrified—”

“Well, yeah, he’s billions of lightyears from home—”

“Yeah! _Billions of lightyears from home._ This ain’t _Stardust_ , Charlie, and it ain’t an episode of Star Trek, neither. It could be dangerous.”

“You’re right,” she says quietly. “…But he could also just be lost.”

Dean eyes her wearily. “Whatever _it_ is,” he sighs, “this is a clusterfuck. Do you get that? We’re in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere, Montana, in my crazy-ass not-really-Uncle’s safehouse. If anyone finds out about this, we’ll probably be thrown in a psych ward to rot, or in prison if they believe us. If anyone comes after us, we’re fucked. If anyone asks why we’re here, _we’re fucked_. I’m gonna have to call Bobby and ask for time off for an impromptu vacation that will stink to hell of goddamn lies. I’m gonna have to lie to _Sammy_.” He takes a deep breath here, shaking his head in disbelief. “I just wanted to be normal, Charlie. Is that too much to ask?”

Biting her lip, the redhead crouches down to run a hand through his hair. She presses a kiss to his temple. “Go to bed, Dean. And don’t worry, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Dean rubs his hand disbelievingly across his mouth. Not even a fucking NASA astrobiologist could figure this one out.

  
  
  


 

**DAY TWO**

 

_“There's a starman waiting in the sky. He'd like to come and meet us, but he thinks he'd blow our minds.”_

                                                                                                                    — David Bowie

 

 

The sensation of waking is just as terrifying the second time. Castiel has never been in a position where he’s lost time, but the last he’d seen through his human eyes, it had been dark, both outside and in the transport. Now, sunlight streams into what Castiel can only assume are holes in this human shelter: his destination.

The star frantically looks around, trying to determine what the scant items in the room are used for and how they can be re-purposed in his favour… but it’s bright in this place, made brighter by his weak and awful human eyes, and the panic he feels is only heightened by the fact that he cannot move. The ground shakes and something _grabs him_. He’s freed moments later, and Castiel kicks out, relief dousing his panic as something _crunches_ under his flailing leg. His breathing evens out, slowly, in time with his adjusting vision.

The female is crouched on the ground, holding her face. Good.

“Still think it’s harmless?”

Castiel’s eyes snap towards the hole in his confined area, narrowing at the male taking up nearly half the space. Holding his hands out, palms up, the male carefully enters through the— _doorway_ , his mind supplies helpfully. They’d had those the last time he’d looked. The female scoffs from below him.

“ _He_ ’s fine,” she says sharply. “I’ll prove it to you.”

“Charlie—”

“Save it for the CIA, Dean. He’s _fine_.” She looks at him. Her eyes are a dull green and her hair is a mess of bright red atop her head. It matches the lifeblood oozing from her nose. “Aren’t you?”

Castiel frowns at her inflection, pressing himself fast against the wall as he forces himself still. He’d made this decision earlier in the Earth’s rotation, hadn’t he? There’s no use fighting when he has nothing to fight for. Despite this, Castiel feels his face twist and contort in fear, and holds his breath in some misguided brace for impact.

It’s a light touch, just below his left eye—and as soon as he feels it, it’s gone. Breath hitching anxiously at the contact, Castiel immediately lifts his own fingers to that same spot, confused at the lack of mobility in his hand. This is mostly likely due to the length of rough, white material wrapped around the largest part of it. The more Castiel stares, the colder his body feels and the warmer his hands become, the appendages glowing a faint blue as the star forces himself to take deep, shaking breaths.

He’s half a second from ripping the alien contraption from his skin when his hand becomes trapped in another.

The male is close, now, closer than even the female, and he’s stroking Castiel’s covered hand. He makes soft, sweet hushing noises despite being clearly nervous as he stares unflinchingly at Castiel’s face. The star tilts his head to the side as a show of his own confusion. Surely the humans don’t mean to toy with him first?

But instead of hurting him, the male… removes the material. He does so deftly, gaze trained on Castiel’s until the scrap of white has been tossed aside. The star immediately looks to it, frowning at the splotches of brown marring its pristine surface before looking down at his hand.

“What…?” the male says.

The human immediately brings the appendage to his own lap, fingers brushing across Castiel’s smooth skin as he flips it and presses his fingers incredulously to the meaty part near his wrist. The star, of his part, remains extremely still if incredibly confused—while he doesn’t necessarily remember every detail before he fell unconscious (a fact that continues to terrify him), it’s clear that whatever the human is seeing frightens him.

“Son of a bitch.”

Dropping his hand, the male quickly moves to Castiel’s knee, removing another white square the star hadn’t even noticed. He inhales sharply at whatever he finds there, and Castiel quickly brings the leg to his chest, inspecting the area himself; hurting there, he does remember. The male presses incredulously against the previously bleeding flesh. “How the hell…?”

Castiel quickly looks up at the human’s tone, eyes wide as he finds himself caught in his gaze for a moment that feels like an hour. While not necessarily attractive, his eyes are expressive—though Castiel finds himself confused at the unrecognizable mess of emotions he finds there. Red rises to the apples of freckled cheeks and the male clears his throat: “I… yeah.” As if to punctuate his nonsense, he trips over himself in his haste to leave.

Castiel, still clutching at his healed knee, stares after him.

“Huh.”

The sound comes from the female, who shakes her head and cautiously moves to take the male’s place. Castiel presses himself more firmly to the wall. When she speaks, her voice is soft and placating and the star does not trust it: “It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She bares her teeth pleasantly. Castiel flinches.

“I’m kinda getting that you can’t understand us, right? So you and me are gonna _Tarzan_ this bitch.”

Castiel observes warily as the female holds a palm up to her own chest—“I’m Charlie”—before motioning to him expectantly. He watches her do this three times before narrowing his eyes. What does she want with his name?

Still, it becomes very clear very quickly that if he does not speak, this _Charlie_ will continue to look at him expectantly until she either loses her voice or dies.

“Castiel.”

The sound surprises them both.

Castiel’s voice rumbles when it leaves him, deep and rough and raw. His hand immediately flies to his own throat, touching the hard bump there with wide eyes. The female—Charlie, looks as if she’ll die from excitement. “Castiel?” she asks, as if his name is complicated and strange.

He nods, uncertain if he enjoys the act of vocalizing, but quite sure that the mess of syllables denotes what would normally be said through telepathic communication.

“Woah.” Charlie waves, then, in one of the few human behaviours Castiel recognizes. Hesitantly, he extends the fingers of his left fist and waves back. Her answering squeal is so high-pitched and loud that Castiel flinches and throws himself back against the wall, shaking hands flying up to cover his ears.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

There’s something in Charlie’s tone that has Castiel carefully cracking open an eye before he’s calmed, gaze flitting around the room to ensure there is nothing of immediate danger in the vicinity. When he finds nothing but the human herself, he regards her warily. He’d heard of various life forms with voices whose frequencies were harmful to other organisms, but never thought humanity had been one of them. Had they evolved since the last time he’d observed them?

Charlie puts her hands up as if in some peaceful gesture, keeping her voice calm and quiet: “Okay, uh—first thing’s first, you’re like, really naked. And I… don’t know your gender. Or if you even have one. _Shit._ Um. What are your pronouns?”

Castiel stares blankly.

“…Do you identify as male?”

 _Male_ is something that vaguely rings a bell, and Castiel motions to himself as if to demonstrate the body he now finds himself in. Gender is something he’s never experienced before, and something he feels indifferent to. Whatever people view him as is their business—he isn’t planning on being here for long enough to establish himself as a man, regardless.

“Okay. So, I’m gonna refer to you as male? And just please let me know if that makes you uncomfortable and you want me to switch to anything else at any other point in time.”

The star watches with a tentative curiosity as she bounds towards the wooden structure in the corner of the room, pulling open one of the slabs. It comes free with a loud groan, and Castiel holds his breath, frowning when she turns back and bares her teeth kindly again. Calmer now, it’s easier to remember this odd human behaviour as something non-threatening, meant to denote happiness or pleasure or comfort—a ‘smile’. While, he’s never understood it in relation to other similar and aggressive behaviours, recalling it now eases Castiel.  

Charlie produces articles of clothing from the wooden furniture, casting each a cursory look before shaking her head. “Okay, I'll be _right back_. Don't move.”

She bounds out of the room, returning moments later to find Castiel eyeing the discarded clothing with a frown. He eyes snap up as she re-enters, tensing again when she lays a bundle of material at his feet. “Clothes,” she says, plucking at the fabric hanging from her own shoulders.

Though the word has changed, its meaning has not. Castiel nods; he remembers when humanity wore animal skins to keep warm and rough-hewn burlap to keep cool. He’d watched them progress from beings at home in the physicality of their own bodies to being ashamed of it—covering themselves with soft silks and linens and wools, draping themselves in ways to seem desirable and forcing each sex into its own proper way of doing so. Castiel had never seen something so violent; game was hunted for survival—even wars, childish and stupid as Castiel believed them to be, served their own purpose… but to restrict certain members of the species for something so incredibly arbitrary? This was psychological manipulation.

Castiel eyes the material Charlie has graciously brought to him, now, disgusted with the fact that he knows she wants him to wear them. However he appears in this new, tiny form, he’s certain he’d look much better bare. Still, he carefully touches the grey fabric at the top of the pile. “Cllllothess.”

Charlie grins. “Super. Uh, just... get familiar with those, okay? I’m gonna go grab my laptop.”

His eyes widen as she makes to leave again, arms snapping out before he realizes what he’s doing. Long fingers wrap tightly around a pale, thin wrist. “ _Charlie_.” It’s different to be the one initiating contact, he finds; her skin is soft and warm, textured with tiny blonde hairs. She appears to be nervous that he’s touched her in such an aggressive manner—her pulse is racing beneath his fingertips, eyes watering. Castiel becomes aware of the fact that he’s holding tightly, and, reluctantly, releases her. She rubs the reddened flesh with a frown. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t take the time to try and parse out what she’s said. Leaving him the first time was one thing, but to do so a second time? While he still doesn’t trust her completely, Castiel is reasonably certain Charlie won’t harm him… having her leave without any indication as to when she’ll return is frightening in an immediate way he doesn’t expect. Logic dictates spending any amount of time with a human is a catastrophically awful idea. Still, human emotion is a black hole—overwhelming and unstoppable—and when Charlie murmurs something and makes to leave again, Castiel clumsy moves to follow.

“Just give me like two shakes,” she says, and it’s meaningless until her fingers run through his hair. His eyes close at the tingly feeling that suddenly explodes over his scalp, fluttering open again to see her looking at him. “I’ll be right back, okay?” she says. “Stay.” In time with the last word, she presses on his shoulders again.

Castiel swallows thickly. “Ssstay?”

“Stay.” Throwing up a fist, she extends her fore and middle finger. “Two minutes.”

Castiel stares unflinchingly at the doorway until she returns.

She enters the room with a rectangular black object, held in a way that is so familiar Castiel frowns. Humans… did not have these the last time he looked upon the Earth. Does this object produce food? Or provide warmth? Prolong life? Is it some sort of odd receptacle for drink?

“Just my laptop, Castiel,” she says. Cas tilts his head to the side.

“Laptop,” she repeats, patting the black surface lovingly.

Castiel’s eyes widen. That thing— _laptop_ … is it her mate? Or child?

Charlie seems to find his reaction confusing, but ignores it, choosing instead to put the laptop carefully on the nearest piece of furniture. “Alrighty then. So, I’m gonna get you into this super cute outfit, and then… we’ll learn stuff! Sound good?”

Castiel squints.

“Great.”

Apparently, the jumble of noise that had left Charlie’s lips was a desire for him to wear material—clothes—like every other human. When she finally manages to communicate this, Castiel thinks on it for a fraction of a second before curling into himself in a clear negative answer. He is not human, and therefore, he will not adhere to ridiculous human custom.

Charlie seems frustrated by this. “Castiel—”

The star glares. “ _Clothes_ ,” he spits, ensuring to infuse the word with as much hatred as he possibly can. He is bigger than Earth and its Star combined. He is raw energy and power. To be forced into this flimsy, tiny body has been a devastating ordeal in and of itself, and if the primitive sacks of meat that captured him will not kill him, then he _will not_ submit to the self-important, arrogant species that rules this stinking, useless hunk of rock.

Charlie does not seem to understand this.

It takes Castiel a long time to properly express himself, sounds passing through his mouth that are almost certainly words lost throughout the years. Finally, however, his point is made.

“Castiel, you have to wear them. They’ll keep your warm, protect your skin, and… cover you up—no one wants to see your… you know.”

This begins a whole other discussion, one that finally ends with Castiel, reluctantly, agreeing to _try_ clothes. Just to try them.

He’s handed what are called _underwear_ , first. Apparently, he’s to put his legs through the two small holes and pull them up to his hips. This is, according to Charlie, to hold his penis and testicles. A stupid endeavor, in Castiel’s humble opinion, but he pulls them on nonetheless, learning the English names for all the parts of his human body as he does. His penis, he learns, is average according to Charlie, who doesn’t seem to particularly enjoy looking at it. Castiel can’t blame her. Next are _sweatpants_ , and then _t-shirt_ —while the sweatpants cause Castiel to hyperventilate due to how restricted he feels, the t-shirt is soft. The hole for his neck, too, is large and provides him with the freedom to breathe, and… begrudgingly, he can admit that it feels nice to be slightly warmer while he wears it.

Only after he’s clothed does Charlie grab her precious black rectangle once more, splitting it open and balancing the thing on her knees. One half lights up, and she makes clicking noises when she presses her fingers against the other.

Castiel is confused and disgusted all at once. The object doesn’t appear to be sentient, but—

The top changes, and the star can’t breathe.

It’s as if he is looking directly at the night sky despite the fact that he’s certain that cannot be true. Even without the human dwelling all around him, there is far too much light seeping in from its ventilation holes to allow him any sort of view of his home. With trembling fingers, he carefully reaches forward, unsure what he’s expecting but shocked regardless when his fingers hit something hard. His heart is rushing in his ears and his throat is dry and that—the blackness and the stars that dot it—that is what he is. Who he is.

He presses his palm to the smooth surface, pushing and pushing as if to force himself inside until Charlie grasps his hand and pulls it to her chest. “Castiel?” she says quietly.

Castiel refuses to look at her. Certainly, she’s been kind to him, but… but this is just another way of gleaning information. Eventually, she’ll use him like her brothers and sisters have used his kind over millennia. Humans are all the same. Eventually—

“That’s your home, isn’t it?”

Castiel’s breath whooshes from his lungs at the sound of her voice, turning briefly to look at the lie. He bites his lip, shouldering away her body when she touches his hair again. Whatever she says, she sounds regretful, and Castiel feels anger—hot and bright—bubble in his chest. He whirls around with every intention of vocalizing his utter _fury_ at this tiny, insignificant _thing_ who _dares_ pity him, lip curling and chest rumbling when he finally meets the human’s eyes; this human who does not fear him; who does not know him. Who is part of a long line of murderers.

Who looks at him, now, as if she is just as devastated.

Her eyes are shiny and wet, brows furrowed in pain as she holds tight to the fabric on the bed. At the sight of her: feeling, somehow, what he’s feeling, he pauses—and in that split second he is overcome. His chest is splitting in two, like he’s gone supernova in this tiny human body, eyes squeezing shut, clutching to Charlie the moment she touches him for some primal, base reason he cannot understand. The contact only causes him to sob. “Charlie,” he hiccups between wet gasps for breath. “ _Charlie_.”

“Shh, it’s okay. I know. It’s your home, Castiel, I know.”

There is something in that word: _home_. In that it repeats. In the way Charlie says it. Pulling the syllable from deep within his diaphragm, Castiel wails it, burying his face into Charlie’s neck. “Castiel home. C-Castiel—” He chokes on his next breath, gasping for air as the human holds him. From this angle he can see the special rectangle and his home within it, brothers and sisters dotted across the sky. He knows most in the area of the Universe the rectangle is showing.

Charlie pulls away, then, wiping at stubbled cheeks as Castiel looks at her forlornly. She takes his hand in her own. “Charlie: human,” she says. “Castiel: star.”  A beat. “Charlie—Castiel home. Castiel: star… home. Okay?”

_I will help you return to the sky, Castiel._

Castiel feels something unclench in his stomach, tears springing to his eyes for an entirely different reason. He reaches forward, grasping at the hem of Charlie’s shirt.

 

 

The black rectangle is called a _laptop_ , and it is multipurpose. Contrary to his initial belief, a _laptop_ is not a mate, nor a child. It has many functions, but the most obvious is as a wealth of information. This is through something Charlie refers to as _Internet_ , which seems to be ever expanding just as the Universe is. It has everything, including images of _space_ and _stars_ and _planets_. _Science_ and _art_ and _history._ Moving images called _videos_ of animals doing amusing things. Something called a _meme_.

They’re in the middle of learning the names of various types of _furniture_ , when something rumbles through Castiel’s body. The sound starts at his middle, completely out of his control. Startled, he presses a palm to the offending area, despairing at the aftershock vibrations rattling through his clothing. He’s so focused on his defective human vessel that Charlie’s hand on his forearm earns her an instinctual push away, one that lands at her chest and leaves her gasping and unable to move. Her face is contorted in an expression that can only be interpreted as one of pain—mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, brow pinched. There is a big, red, handprint-shaped mark on the areas their skin touched, and of his part, Castiel feels his eyes widen. He didn’t… mean to harm her—he doesn’t trust her, to be sure, but he didn’t mean…

Swallowing thickly, the star crawls towards the prone creature, hand reaching out of its own accord, fingers extending to press against the angry-looking flesh. He fits each appendage to the print beneath, mouth falling open in the surprise at the warmth gathered there. His breath hitches, his eyes close, and light spills from his palm.

It extinguishes a moment later.

Castiel almost collapses in the aftermath. Barely able to hold himself upright, his vision is distorted and his center of gravity has clearly been compromised. There is something fighting its way up his throat. He swallows in an attempt to push it down. Instead, a groan tumbles from his lips.

It’s hard to see the state in which he’s found himself, but amidst his spotting vision, Charlie has crawled away from him, a hand pressed to her healed flesh. She is muttering in a way that sounds important, but Castiel cannot understand Human at the best of times—here, now, it is impossible even to differentiate between each sound she makes. Squeezing his eyes shut, Castiel brings his hands to his head as if doing so will right whatever imbalance he is currently experiencing. The texture of the bedclothes is too scratchy against his skin and he grits his teeth as his body shifts. He will be rubbed raw. His ears will explode from the coming and going of Charlie’s voice. His heart will stop because it’s beating too much too fast. He will die because there is air all around him—oxygen and nitrogen and carbon dioxide—but he has forgotten how to breathe and he’s trying but it won’t stay in his lungs something is wrong he can’tcan’t _can’t_ —

Castiel doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he finds himself seated on a hard surface.

He is in a room he doesn’t recognize, larger than the one previous, with what seems like two sections: one with long furniture used perhaps for laying out on, facing a big black box with what appears to be antennae. This is the only piece in the entire dwelling that seems to be even remotely well-maintained, and Castiel quickly recognizes it as the altar—used for prayers and offerings, humans have always had such sacred, spotless places in their otherwise crude and squalid little homes.

The star watches, still slightly dazed, as Charlie moves around the other half of the room, this one full of sharp corners and hard surfaces. He sees her remove what appear to be plants from a large, standing box in the corner and frowns, the expression turning horrified when he watches her place part of the plant immediately into her mouth. He watches as she removes things in see-through coverings and what look to be weapons from various _drawers_ and _cupboards_. She’s preparing… food? Sustenance?

How? Do humans no longer hunt and farm and forage for their meals?

Castiel does not have time to ponder this.

There is a deafening noise approaching.

It sounds like the appearance of two asteroids colliding, and the star stares unblinkingly towards the source of the noise, his fingers tickling with his fight or flight response the louder it becomes. When it reaches a fever pitch, his heart just about beats out of his chest, hands turning warm and bright at his sides. The sound cuts out, and Castiel holds his breath. Another loud noise, heavy footfalls, and then…

The male bursts into the room with his arms wrapped around a receptacle swollen with packaging. “You forgot the beer,” he grunts at Charlie, looking up from his feet and stopping dead when their eyes meet.

Castiel narrows his, tensed to flee, when the male snaps his gaze to Charlie. “What the hell’s it doing in here?”

“Uh, we were gonna eat—”

“Charlie, we don’t know _what_ it eats. For all you know, it’ll bite your fuckin’ arm off when you hand it a piece of bacon—hey, is that my shirt?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Castiel is a beefy guy—wasn’t gonna put him in my limited edition Leia t-shirt.  _Carrie Fisher_ wore it; I’m not giving it to some ripped alien so he can stretch it out.”

“Great. Yeah, give it my shirts, instead. Real nice.”

“Your shirts are from Target.”

The male takes a deep breath, fists clenching at his sides before his fingers are forced to relaxation. “Did you see what it did to the outside of the house?”

“Well, _he_ ’s been with me ever since _he_ woke up, so I sincerely doubt _he_ ’s done anything to anything.”

The male rolls his eyes. With every passing moment, his body language tightens and sharpens. “Take a look, Ellen Ripley,” he says, gesturing grandly to the open door. Castiel frowns at the action, the expression deepening when Charlie makes eye contact and deliberately rolls her eyes, as if to say _can you believe this?_

Personally, Castiel can’t. Mostly because _he can’t understand what’s going on_. The female seems to know this, though, and so slides over a plate filled with food he cannot recognize before pointing at the male and saying, pointedly: “Dean.”  

His name. _Dean_.

Charlie also makes a myriad of other noises after bestowing this information upon him, words that anger _Dean_ and cause him to tense even further. She only gives the male a pat on his shoulder as she walks by, shooting a look at Castiel that clearly means: _I’ll be back_. Castiel still doesn’t trust her, but he believes she will be. She has, insofar, given him no reason to doubt her interest in him.

Still, _Dean_ is an unknown variable, and it’s for this reason that Castiel does not move his gaze from him as Charlie leaves the house. He watches him stick his package in the large food box, and take one of the objects within. _Beer_ , he’d said. He sits down opposite, human eyes narrowed and glaring.

Castiel allows him to look his fill. Before, he’d have shone so brightly this puny thing would have been vaporized—punishment for daring to treat him with such disrespect. Before, he’d expand and contract and swallow the weak, fleshy body whole. But this isn’t Before, and Castiel is weak, himself. Tired. He barely has the strength to stand, let alone unleash raw, cosmic force unto a disrespectful insect.

From outside, Charlie makes a pleased exclamation; and while Castiel makes a note of it, he continues to keep his gaze trained on the human indoors. Though he’s never borne the brunt of such an aggressive physical expression—his kind rely on telepathy and radiation and light to communicate, not facial features—the air between them feels… tense, almost. Heavy. It makes Castiel’s skin itch, and while he fidgets, Dean’s glare deepens. Hostile, then. This is a hostile interaction. Good.

Hostile humans, Castiel understands.  

He stands up straighter, pushing back his shoulder and raising his chin in an attempt to make himself look bigger than he is. It’s a strategy he’s seem creatures of flesh and bone use regularly, and it seems to have the desired effect. Dean scoffs and his nostrils flare, exhibiting even further anger.

Castiel wonders how in the world this species can think it’s above any kind of animality.

“Cas, hey, you gotta—woah, there.” Charlie enters the room sprinting and skids to a stop. “Let’s put our dicks away, huh boys? Dean?”

“Tell that to _it_.”

“Oh my God.”

That seems to be the end of the discussion, Charlie nudging Dean good-naturedly and with a smile. Dean, on the other hand, wears his sourness like a badge of honour. It’s interesting to watch them: the play of their faces and the give and take of their physical conversation—or, rather, the lack of it. While Charlie clearly attempts to engage the male, Dean remains slumped and angry. At a certain point, she gives up, turning to Castiel.

Hesitantly, the star allows himself to be helped, Charlie supporting his waist as they limp to look at the outside of the house. Here, the Earth’s Star— _Sun_ —is bright against his skin, warming it in a way that is pleasant and awful all at the same time. The air… smells here. Like humidity and photosynthesis. He doesn’t like it.

“ _Look_.”

The little shack is covered in greenery. Plants and flowers climb up the sides of the house, choking it as they grow up and up and up. They’re on the walls and beneath the rotted planks of the floor and in the surrounding space, and when they see him, they move. _Towards him_. Castiel extends a hand, eyes turning wide as a leaf reaches out to wrap around his thumb. It’s… softer than he thought it would be. It’s nice.

Castiel gently rubs the plant between thumb and forefinger, huffing in some odd approximation of surprise and joy as three more buds sprout from the stem. Below his feet, green things stretch to brush his ankles and tickle the soles of his feet. Even the trees around him seem to bend toward his general position.

He’s heard of this.

Balthazar had named it an innate power, fashioning himself a god during his time on Earth. Inias had called it a gift from the Father to the Essenes. Rachel had not called it anything, but others had declared _Magic_ , and Hannah, well… she had hidden it. To the very best of her abilities.

Experiencing it for himself now, Castiel doesn’t see how. Every living thing on the planet seems to be leaning towards him, wanting to share in his presence. He knows it has to do with what he is, inside: a being of pure, unbridled energy, he is at his core raw Creation. Humans, ignoring their animality for so long perhaps cannot sense him as effectively, but Castiel knows there are larger creatures beyond the tree line, elated and terrified by his presence. He can _feel_ it.

“…Castiel?”

Castiel quickly turns, eyeing Charlie as she looks at him curiously, the expression on her face edged with caution. He notices, then, that he has limped almost to the tree line, his hand stretched out to touch the plants that reach to meet him, trails of delicate red blossoms marking his path. They sprout up between his toes and weave around his ankles.

He shakes himself and walks towards her. In the light, her hair looks like fire. She wraps an arm around his waist and tugs. “C’mon.”

Once more, Castiel allows himself to be led.

 

 

Standing and walking for so long is incredibly taxing, and by the time they’ve re-entered the house the star feels faint and exhausted and incorporeal. Charlie catches Castiel just before his knees give out, supporting him with her whole body as she helps him back into the—the _chair_. He’d learnt that word earlier. _Chair_. What an odd, arbitrary mix of sounds. Though, he supposes, that’s what any and all language is, truly—

“What’s… wrong with it?”

Castiel groans as he’s pushed up against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. Charlie leaves only to come back with a glass of some sweet drink, pressing the receptacle to his lips. Too tired to protest, he takes a tentative sip. Dean is the one who spoke. He’s laying out in front of the boxy alter, the thing showing colourful, moving pictures. Castiel has to rub his eyes to ensure it’s real. At his side, Charlie and Dean have a conversation he doesn’t understand:

“You, uh, remember Eleven? From _Stranger Things_?” Charlie says. “Pretty sure that’s what’s happening right now—he’s recharging his batteries.”

“Uh huh. And… why is it doing that?”

“Because.”

“Because…?”

“He’s tired.”

“Right. Why is it tired, Charlie?”

“So, uh, let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Deadpool, Elixir, Gambit and Dryad had a baby.”

Dean almost does a double-take. “What?”

“Just, like, hypothetically. If they did. Their lovechild would control plants and wield energy and heal people and not die yadayadayada. Yeah?”

“You’re not making sense, Charlie.”

“Right. I’m getting there.” She takes a deep breath. “Castiel is the lovechild in this scenario.”

“That’s impossible.”

“How? His cuts healed in like a minute, plants fucking grow towards him, and he can control energy!”

Dean narrows his eyes.

“Ugh, fine. While you were gone, he burned me.”

“ _Burned you_?!”

“Just a little! Like a… teeny, tiny, fourth degree burn! And then he healed me right up! No biggie!”

“Charlie, what the _fuck_ —”

“It’s fine! Dean, seriously, look at me.” Charlie extends her arms as if showing them to the male. “It’s cool. Nothing happened. Well, I mean, something happened, but Castiel’s just, y’know, he’s getting his Earth-legs. It’s expected!”

“It could’ve _killed you_ —”

“But he didn’t!”

“Charlie—”

“ _Dean_ , just… give him a chance, okay? He’s scared. He’s been basically taken from his home against his will, he has _no one_ —”

“It’s _dangerous_ —”

“Yeah well, on paper, aren’t you?”

The way Dean’s body slumps draws Castiel’s eye from the altar, his shoulders turned in, body made small. Even when he stands, the male seems to have retreated inside himself. “Yeah,” he says, walking forward. “I am.” He stops right before Castiel, his tensed jaw the only indicator of his previous emotional state. “But you’re right: don’t need more than one violent animal on your hands, huh?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“Dean, you _know_ —Dean! Dean, you can’t just— _shit_ —” Dean has left the house and Charlie chases after him, yelling as the deafening growl and earth-quaking rumble from earlier tear through the air. Charlie only comes back inside when it’s no longer audible, her cheeks flushed with anger. She kicks the door with a frustrated yell. “ _Fuck_!”

Castiel flinches.

It takes her a good few moments to gather herself again, blinking rapidly and burying hands in her red hair. Against his own judgment, the star forces himself to focus, opening his mouth to say, cautiously: “Charlie?”

Charlie’s head snaps up. “Yeah,” She says. “Sorry. Sorry. He’s just… he’ll come around. He has to, right? It’ll be fine.” She smiles, and Castiel tries to smile back. It’s difficult when he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t understand why he’s apparently trying to help this human _feel better_. Still, he watches her visibly pull herself together at his force of encouragement. It’s jarring, the way she seems to _decide_ to inhabit another emotional space. Her entire demeanor changes. By the time she’s presenting him with some other foreign, disgusting-looking mound of sustenance, she’s smiling and chatting happily.

Both her expression and the food are disturbing to him.

…But if this is what he needs to put into the grotesque waste machine he now inhabits, perhaps he can make an exception; the violently yellow-orange drink he’d been fed earlier opened a black chasm of gurgling and gnawing in his stomach, and nothing bad has happened to him in the interim of its consumption. So, cautiously, Castiel makes an attempt when Charlie teaches him how to eat.

He consumes _peanut butter_ on _bread_ with _jam_ — _PB+J sandwich_ —and drinks _orange juice._   _Apples_ he is not so fond of, but he enjoys their texture. He does not like _grapes_ . Chewing in itself is tiresome, but he can understand the appeal of eating after he’s done; the feeling of being full and fed is one that has him content and energized. Charlie teaches him that humans in this part of the world generally eat three meals a day, though consuming food whenever one is hungry is appropriate. It seems a good system. Easy, too, now that they apparently no longer hunt. Even _markets_ are generally a thing of the past, with sustenance coming from all corners of the globe to be held in _stores_ . Furthermore, humans have _factories_ to make food for them. Gone are the days of humanity fighting for sustenance in the wild, or tending the lands for their lords and kings… there is a different kind of desperation, now, that is not brought on by the fear of going without. Or perhaps it is.

Perhaps this is what happens when a species slaughters their way to the top of the biological hierarchy and sits there, uncontested. Perhaps the frenzied, constant consumption of food—the hoarding of it, the insane volume available for ingestion at any given moment—is a symptom of having too much in the place of not enough.

Or maybe not. Apparently, not all peoples behave this way towards food. Some do not have it. There are humans all over the world, even in the place in which he finds himself— _Montana, United States_ —who are starving.

Castiel does not want to hear anymore.

They change the subject, but spend the better part of the day sitting around the _kitchen table_ . Charlie teaches him about the kitchen and _living room_. About the _television_ , which she says is not an altar but whose placement still has Castiel suspicious. Through it all, he attempts to work past the exhaustion still present in his mind and body to listen closely. Every sound Charlie makes is carefully stored away for later, the way she structures speech filed in his memory to be used. Human language is worse than inefficient; it is _superfluous._

He is in the middle of trying to explain this to Charlie—communication is still extremely difficult, consisting most often of hand motions rather than sounds—when something warm runs down his leg.

It’s so foreign and unexpected that Castiel jumps in his chair, eyes wildly searching for what touched him… but it’s stopped. Frowning, the star looks at the wet spot staining his underwear and the liquid beading on his leg. His abdomen aches.

“Ah shit,” Charlie says.

It’s at this moment that Dean walks through the door.

There is another argument, that much is clear, and it ends with Charlie helping him to one of the side rooms. She calls it a _bathroom_ , and gives Castiel an encouraging smile as she leaves him. The room is different than the others he’s been in, with odd objects along with those familiar ones he recognizes. What’s truly interesting, however, is the shiny covering above what appears to be a smaller _sink_ than in the kitchen.

Fingers reaching out to touch it, Castiel is confused when he feels a cold smoothness totally unlike the warmth of his own skin. He can’t be too bothered by the development, however, because this means the creature staring back at him may be someone else. Anyone else. Turning, Castiel is dismayed to find no one behind him, but that means nothing. Who knows how the laws of the Universe function once you’re standing on Earth’s crust. The shiny being, with its gold-tinted skin and bright blue eyes, is not him. Cannot be. He is too big for the smallness of what is looking back at him.

There is an annoyed huff from his side and Dean glares from the doorway. Castiel tenses in what must be a survival instinct as the human approaches, eyes trained on him instead of the shiny thing.

“It’s a mirror,” Dean says. Castiel narrows his eyes in confusion.

Huffing in frustration, the male moves until his fingers touch the surface just as Castiel’s had. “Mirror.”

Castiel swallows thickly. “Mmmirror.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Here.” He seems to hesitate in touching him, inadvertently giving Castiel plenty of time to refuse before he makes contact with his arm. The star holds his breath and humours him when the male finally comes to a decision. Castiel watches cautiously as he is arranged in front of the mirror to look directly at it, one of his hands taken in Dean’s. In the mirror, two sets of fingers move to touch the face with blue eyes.

Castiel feels his stomach flip violently.

He shakes his head, further dismayed when the figure in the mirror does the same. Stepping back, Castiel tries to speak, to communicate in some way that the human will understand that this _isn’t_ —it can’t be—his chest hurts, and the light in the room flickers, and everything Castiel is feels awful and tight and his legs are weak and his vision is spotty and his… his…

Something crawls up his throat and Castiel leans over with the force of it, coughing up liquid from inside this _prison_ that spills over his chin and splashes into basin and drips onto his t-shirt-clad chest.

“Fuckin’—seriously?”

It leaves an awful taste in his mouth, and when he cautiously brings up a finger to touch the wetness, the human roughly takes his wrist and shakes his head. Castiel watches, sniffling, as he opens a cupboard and produces a large swathe of material. He moves to the sink and turns the dull, rusting knob similar to that in the kitchen. Castiel frowns when he sees a liquid emerge from the end and steps back when the corner of the soft thing is wetted and then brought towards him.

Who knows what the properties of that particular liquid are. He will not have it touching him, not while he’s in such a vulnerable state.

The human must understand this, for he sighs as if greatly inconvenienced and drags it along his own skin before holding it out for Castiel to try. Suspiciously, the star brushes his hand across the dampness. When nothing happens, he gives a _very_ hesitant nod. The human wipes the spit from Castiel’s chin and chest. It’s an odd feeling against his new, sensitive skin, one that makes his vision blur all over again as he looks at the mirror. Dark, messy hair. Blue eyes. A nose. No claws or plating or any kind of physical defenses to speak of. This is who he is, now.

This is who he is because he can never go home.

“What’s this?”

It’s a question, though Castiel cannot understand it. He frowns at Dean, flinching when the human comes close to touching the notch of his spine. Craning his neck, the star is dismayed to find that his field of vision in this body is severely limited. He growls in frustration.

“Wait a second.”

This phrase Castiel does recall, though he doesn’t like it. He watches carefully as Dean rifles through the drawers on the furniture before pulling out another reflective surface like the—the mirror—but compact and easily transportable.

“Look forward.”

Though Dean gently moves Castiel’s head, the star refuses to do as he’s told—not when there is a human wielding an unfamiliar object behind him. Turning, Castiel moves to glare at the man, their faces so close their noses practically brush—though they do not touch. Dean steps away immediately, lip curled in a snarl before forcing himself calm in a way that makes Cas’s eyes narrow.

“M’not gonna hurt you, dumbass. I’m tryin’ to help you—”

Castiel gasps. There, right there in the small mirror, is a mark on his skin. Furious and terrified, the star darts forward, fingers painfully colliding with the hard surface as he yelps, glaring. His sharp, suspicious gaze turns to Dean when the human forcefully takes his hand and guides it to the back of his own neck. Blue eyes widen as he presses fingers to the marked skin, surprised to find it doesn’t feel raised or unnatural. He knows these symbols—he’s not certain how, but… he knows them.

“What does it mean?” Dean asks, eyes narrowed with suspicion of his own. Castiel doesn’t know why. He knows the least of everyone living in this dilapidated shack of a house. The star lets his hand fall to his side and rolls his shoulders, taking stock of how his body feels. Nothing seems to be amiss other than the fact that he has a body in the first place.

“Hey!” Dean barks, roughly grabbing Castiel by the shoulder. The star feels an ugly, aggressive sound rips itself from his throat at the action and immediately pushes against the intrusion to his space, growling when Dean hits the back wall. But despite breathing heavily under his palm—his heart is racing, Castiel can feel it—the human continues to glare. Stupidly, the star thinks, as he could crush this human’s chest in with a particularly hard shove. He could squeeze his heart between his hands and burn him to a crisp before this moronic sack of flesh could blink. He knows this imperatively, somehow, and his earlier interaction with Charlie seems to prove it.

Dean apparently knows this, too. He snarls something of his own— _do it, I dare you_ —and Castiel clenches his jaw. They continue to glare at each other. That is, until Dean curls his lip and spits _what is it_ , chin motioning to the mark. The human’s heart leaps in fear.

Fear.

And yet, he is glaring, and proud. Clearly, Dean is not one to cower or manipulate. He has a clear, honest face, and greets his fate head-on. His stupidity aside, this is something worthy of respect. And so Castiel steps away, blue gaze unwavering from the human’s, and tilts his chin up.

“Fuck you, Castiel.”

Castiel doesn’t know what that means, but he’s certain it isn’t nice. Still, Dean’s utter stupidity makes him—smile, oddly enough. They’re still close, Charlie could only just fit between them, but this display is… adorable in its futility. Like asteroid dust glaring at a black hole. It seems Dean knows this, too, by his gritted teeth. It must bother him greatly, if he insists on acting the fool.

The human keeps eyes on him as Castiel carefully raises his chin, to which the human scoffs but does not move from his place on the wall. He waits until Castiel has calmed before lowering his eyes and motions for the star to disrobe. This, Castiel has seen. His shoulders descend from their place at his ears as he observes the begrudging submissive behaviour of the creature before him— it is forced deferral, yes, but also a temporary pact of non-violence. Demonstrating his own trust, Castiel drops his wet underwear and slips off his shirt.

Dean turns bright red and says, variations of the same three words and phrases: ‘No’, ‘Charlie’, and ‘get in here’.

Castiel understands two out of the three.

Charlie eventually arrives, rolls her eyes, and leaves, muttering something along the lines of: “Don’t be such a baby.”

“ _I’m_ being a baby? It’s _your_ pet!”

She yells something else as she departs, which makes Dean mutter something dark and ugly under his breath. It’s disconcerting, especially in light of tentative trust between them. This precariousness is demonstrated yet again when the star is promptly herded, nude, into a box and almost drowned. From the way he is pushed into the _shower_ , it’s surprising that Dean is… conscientious of his movements. He is quick to ask permission for larger touches with soft presses against his shoulders or arms, and where the star had been expecting violation, his human counterpart is careful. He is by no means gentle—Castiel is scrubbed and rubbed raw with a slimy, viscous matter that turns white and bubbly and smells like things it has no business smelling like (lavender and pine and mint, with something sickeningly synthetic underneath)—but not unsafe. That is perhaps the most surprising of all.

This being said, it is not comfortable. It is still scary. And Castiel is continuously on edge. There is one moment in particular where Dean scrubs too close to his groin and Castiel instinctually jumps back, the knob for the shower slamming into his spine. Castiel yelps in pain and surprise and Dean quickly steps _into the shower_ to grab his arm.

While this should have been enough to have his hands glowing, they are completely devoid of light.

“Woah, there.”

Castiel feels his heart pound in his chest, fingertips beginning to tingle in fear. But as awful as he feels his hands do not glow. Whether he is too tired or not terrified enough, he is powerless. Impotent. He remains plastered against the back wall, metal digging into his skin as he watches Dean carefully raise his hands, speaking slowly and calmly. “Sorry, Castiel. That was my fault. I’m sorry.” He keeps his eyes down for good measure, flicking up only to observe Castiel’s overall demeanour before looking to the floor. “Here,” he says, offering the scrubbing cloth. “You try. Just, uh, clean your junk.”

Castiel makes a terrified, half-hearted attempt at mimicking Dean’s movements. His own are clumsy and slow, not in the least aided by the sharp pain at his back whenever he moves. Though Dean keeps his distance, his gaze is not warm, his compassion tense, his kindness steeped in suspicion and fear. Castiel looks at his powerless hands and wonders what this human could possibly be afraid of. Clearly, his own gifts are totally unreliable. They are not a tool he can access and use at will, nor a crutch to fall back on. He is alone here, and practically human. He was just shoved under water and scrubbed within an inch of his life, and the moment he began to feel uncomfortable, there were no glowing palms to aid him. Dean’s attempts to warn him before touching were surprising and appreciated, but what happens when the next human is not as begrudgingly kind?

Helpless, he exits the box drenched and cold. Dean wraps him in a larger swathe of worn, rough material, rubbing furiously at his skin until it is red and pink and devoid of liquid. He mutters to himself as he leaves the room, soaking wet himself, and Castiel catches his own reflection in the mirror. He carefully touches the smooth surface again, assuming that the cloudy film concealing it is water vapour rather than anything harmful. His face, when it becomes visible, continues to make Castiel’s stomach flip unpleasantly, though looking more closely it is not entirely human. Yes, Castiel has a nose and mouth and ears and the beginnings of facial hair… but his forward-facing eyes are not those of a mortal. At least, not of any mortal Castiel has ever seen. They are ethereal in their blue-ness, bright and rich and alight with a raw energy neither Dean nor Charlie possess. While it’s not much considering he has _knees_ now, it’s something.

And anything familiar is worth cherishing.

 

 

Castiel is clothed and helped into bed by Dean, who leaves without a word. He almost prefers this to Charlie, who enters soon after and tries to cuddle up to him with a book. It takes a few minutes of shifting away before he has to resort to outright pushing, made weak by his anxiety and exhaustion. To her credit, the minute Charlie understands, she all but flings herself to the edge of the mattress. Not leaving, simply… hovering there. With her book. “Is this okay?”

It’s not, really—nothing about this situation is “okay”—but Castiel doesn’t know how to articulate that in human speech and is too exhausted to learn. So he nods, and stares straight ahead, as Charlie begins to speak:

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort…”

As hard as he tries to keep his eyes open, he falls asleep with the sun low in the sky.

  


 

 

 

**DAY THREE**

 

_“After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say 'I want to see the manager.”_

                                                                                                   — William S. Burroughs

 

 

Castiel wakes to a wet bed.

The smell makes his nose itch, and his bowels ache besides. This is something Dean does not comment on, and Charlie treats delicately, though Castiel can’t fathom why. Relieving oneself is only natural when one is flesh and blood, though admittedly, it is deeply unsettling. Still, the female uses this opportunity to teach him all about the _bathroom_ and its modern wonders, as well as the proper way to _do laundry_.

The next few days follow in a similar pattern.

Castiel wears something called _Depends_ in the place of underwear—something he _despises_ , but until he becomes used to controlling his bladder, is apparently non-negotiable. Luckily, this is managed by his sixth morning on Earth. The rest of day is usually spent learning. Charlie shows him things on her laptop, brings _paper_ to teach him _math_ (which he greatly enjoys) and helps him makes lists of words to add to his limited vocabulary. Sentence structure is lightly touched upon… Castiel is under the impression that the order of the words is something Charlie takes for granted.

They eat, too. Often.

Castiel isn’t sure how he feels about the physical act of sustaining his body. On the one hand, taste is a grand adventure, whether good or bad—but on the other: eating on the whole is… as disgusting and off-putting as it is essential. Exhausting, too, in its repetition: the frequency at which he needs to relieve himself is bothersome, and the aching of his stomach impossible to keep track of. _Cravings_ have become the bane of his existence—he cannot understand how he can look at an array of foods and feel unenthused at consuming any of it but be willing to sell his soul for a _cookie_.

In the same vein, when Charlie had taken him to the grocery store Castiel had been so overwhelmed by choice he’d nearly set fire to the building. It had been freezing inside, its small space stuffed to the brim with food and alcohol and cigarettes. “It’s a one-stop shop,” Charlie had pleasantly informed him, fixing _sunglasses_ over his too-blue eyes before they’d left the car.

She’d pushed a metal contraption seemingly impervious to the acidic tang of cleaning products and the wet, musty odour of slowly rotting fruits and vegetables. There had been barely any room enough to walk amid the overstuffed shelves, but Charlie hadn’t noticed how excessive it all was—she’d merely filled their cart and talked him down from setting fire to a row of shelves full of cereal. _Cereal_ . As if humanity requires cereal at all. Not to mention the counter of weapons. Just looking at the stuff made his blood boil, hands heating to twist the metal of their _cart_. “Shit, c’mon.” Charlie had removed him from the building not long after that.

The store had been surrounded by a sea of orange flowers, the stems straining to touch him, blown about on a non-existent wind. Charlie had taken one look at it and quickened their pace, muttering to herself, head ducked down. They’d returned to the tiny dwelling in the middle of the woods immediately.

Generally, this has been the pattern of his existence on this planet: one overwhelming and disappointing activity interspersed with eating and then, one way or another, expelling all that he ingests.

Humans are disgusting.

The entertaining parts of this learning experience are two-fold. The first is that while _raisins_ are revolting, _plums_ are perhaps the most delicious things on the face of the Earth. The second is _reading_.

Well, reading. Castiel can’t read.

But he listens to Charlie and now has a tiny book all his own.

Reading helps him with English while simultaneously offering a make-believe world to get lost in. Books detailing the subject of his home are entertaining in their simple and flawed understanding of it—“probably leftover from Dean’s ninth grade science class”—but what the star truly loves is the one with drawings of all the plants and animals that can be found around the little shack. _Foxes and daffodils and daisies and tadpoles and bees and elk._ The book Castiel can read alone is boring in comparison ( _See Spot Run_ ), but Charlie has informed him that he has to “walk before he makes it to Mordor”, which he understands as learning being a gradual process. A frustrating, annoying, agonizing slow process, but a process nonetheless.

Castiel finds it beneficial to both his patience and stamina to spend all his time out-of-doors. It rains water here, which means it’s safe to be out even in when the weather isn’t clear. He likes outside: it’s vast and uncontained, and is like home in a way that the claustrophobic shack Charlie and Dean inhabit will never be. There is a freshness and openness to it that is worlds better than the staleness of the house, and is reminiscent but nowhere near the endlessness of his home. This misplaced nostalgia is why he finds himself slathered with an oily, white cream that sits like a film on skin, to _protect him from the sun_ despite the fact that his skin turns brown under its rays regardless. It’s why he is forced to wear a _hat_ , and told to sit in the _shade_ and, when it’s raining, is herded under the porch. This last is something he finds ridiculous—the rain is cold and soothing and wonderful, until _lightning_ and _thunder_ serve to terrify him into moving indoors. Living in a vacuum his entire life means sound is something he’s particularly sensitive to, and the star doesn’t care for the way he can feel the thunder in his chest and high winds cause the shack to shake on its creaking foundations.

Sickness is also a thing that accompanies rain.

Castiel had been bedridden for two whole days because his stomach was revolting against him and then he couldn’t breathe, or regulate his own body temperature, or sleep despite the utter exhaustion of his body, and as a result was unable to do much but groan and cough and fitfully doze.

Certainly, Charlie had been wonderful in her caring of him—she’d made him something called _soup_ , which he’d greatly enjoyed, and _tea,_ and had bundled him up and had him watch movies from _Walt Disney._ He’d been reasonably certain this level of caring was for his own benefit and not some overcomplicated plan to trick him into believing people care for him, here. If anything, the experience of being sick taught him to dread the next time he invariably fell ill. The human body is utterly helpless.

This is a fact that is reiterated to him daily, not in the least through how his body’s inability to deal with the summer heat has him tossing and turning, stifled by Charlie’s extra warmth and tangled up in the sheets. He spends approximately thirty-seven minutes and fifteen seconds staring at the ceiling before giving up and going outdoors.

Since Falling, he’s refused to turn his face towards the other stars. Seeing what he’s lost from his current position—weak and human and so very far away, promises nothing but pain. Instead, he focuses on other things.

It’s cold, which is an odd thing after the nothingness that has preceded for millennia. Even stranger is the immediacy he feels—in the splintering hardwood beneath his backside, the grass under his feet, the clothing hanging limply from his human form. There is an unsettling sense of here and now that causes his skin to crawl. Filling his lungs to the brim, Castiel lets it go with an almighty _whoosh_ , pressing fingertips to his lips. It takes him longer than he’d care to admit to gather enough courage to look up.

His breath leaves him once more.

The sky is vast and dark, filled with millions upon millions of inhabitants. Castiel knows this, but to see his kind from this perspective—pressed into two-dimensions by his own claustrophobic corporeality—is, truly, sublime. Beautiful and terrifying all at once, Castiel finds his throat turn dry and his vision blur with unshed tears. Still, he does not look away. Instead, the star settles on the rotting wooden steps, and looks his fill. He traces a line of his siblings with one eye closed and a pointed index finger. Perhaps not as physically comfortable as the bed, it’s easier to breathe out here, where the air is fresh and sharp entering his lungs and his family is spread out above him. Castiel allows himself to lean against one of the beams supporting the roof overhead; he is exhausted, though by his own body’s biological processes or the mental fatigue of being human is anyone’s guess.

Castiel stares at the sky until his eyes flutter closed and his breath evens out.

 

 

“No, it’s not—not a religious thing.”

Castiel frowns as he tries to parse the meaning of that thought, slowly nodding as before emphatically shaking his head. It is impossible that humans do not worship the little black box placed upon its tiny altar. Look at them right now! Dean and Charlie are poised in front of it as if to receive some priceless piece of wisdom.

It takes some time for the star to communicate this, but once he does, Charlie rolls her eyes. “It’s entertainment,” she says. “For fun, you know? We don’t worship it.”

Castiel is not convinced; worship is characterized by what? Holding something in a higher standing? Giving offerings to demonstrate that standing? How is any of this different to setting aside time during the day to watch television? Of gifting it a human’s time (of which they have very little)? The star is ready to argue this when Dean, who had been glaring at him for daring to start a conversation during his “show”, digs around his backside before producing a _phone_.

Castiel is reasonably certain he wasn’t storing the device in his anus, but makes a mental note to ask Charlie later. For now, he observes the way the colour drains from Dean’s face and he holds the little rectangle up to his ear, licking his lips and walking to the kitchen.

“Uh… hey Sammy.”

Beside him, Charlie freezes.

Castiel’s eyes narrow. He understands how phones work; Charlie made a point of teaching him how to telephone her using the “ancient thing” in the house… but he never imagined that receiving a call could be dangerous. Is the disembodied voice on the phone a threat somehow?

Dean paces the floor, nodding along and running his free hand through his hair, pulling at the strands. “Yeah, well, I wanted to call sooner but first there was the con and then the driving and—dude, on the way through Utah I got a nail in my tire. Yeah, it was really inconvenient. And then the shop didn’t get the right tires and just—it set us back a few days. Anyway, Charlie and I are thinkin’ of stayin’ a little longer, you know? Gotta love that desert sunshine! …Yep, I’m definitely freckling a lot. Not as much as when we visited Poughkeepsie, but y’know. Mmhm. Reception’s kinda spotty out here, d’you think you could just let Bobby know I’m taking my vacation days? We’re thinking of coming back through Route 66 since we’re already here.” A beat. “That’s good. Yeah. What’s new with you? Aw man, gum on your new shoes? That sucks. Uh huh. Okay. Yeah, you too. Bye, Sammy.” Dean hangs up and presses his face to his hands. “ _Fuck_.”

“Fuck?” Charlie asks. “Fuck what?”

“The goddamn CIA, that’s what.”

“I knew it,” she breathes.

Dean rolls his eyes, sliding his phone into his back pocket and making for the door. Charlie frowns. “Hey, wait—what’d he say? How much trouble are we in?”

“The kind that needs a burner phone and Bobby’s panic room. I’m gonna make a final supply run and then we’re on lock down. Keep The Thing inside and hidden, you got me?”

“We’re— _what_? Dean, wait—”

But Dean is gone.

Charlie stares at the door through the Impala revving to life, and the crunch of her tires as she drives off. Chewing her lip, she turns to him after the sound has faded from their hearing, pasting on a smile that is wide and bright but fabricated and disturbing, somehow. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Well,” she says, swallowing thickly. “Guess you’re a pretty popular guy, huh?”

Castiel doesn’t understand her meaning.

 

 

Charlie explains the branches of government in the United States. She skims over the _senate_ and _congress_ and the _house,_ speaking briefly of the leader—the _president_ —who is apparently orange and “a fucking dictator”. While most of it is complicated and difficult to communicate through hand motions, the point is more or less understood: things are bad right now. And now, a branch of the government who recently got into trouble for spending lots of money researching the existence of extraterrestrials have one within their grasp.

They want Castiel. Badly.

Castiel is not surprised by this. Based on this siblings’ experiences with humanity he’d known it was coming—what he _is_ surprised by is Charlie’s righteous anger. Not towards him for putting her in the position of being hunted by her own people… but _for_ him. “No one’s gonna lay a hand on you, okay? Over my dead body.”

It’s terribly confusing.

More confusing still is the fact that Dean also seems adamant that Castiel be kept away from these people. They’ve barely interacted past the occasional glare since the shower, but if there was anyone Castiel thought would’ve been glad to be rid of him, it would be Dean. His shock at this must be plain, because Charlie trudges outside to sit next to him one morning, handing him a mug of herbal tea and making herself comfortable on what has become his favourite place—the back stoop—when she tells him, quietly:

“You know why Dean’s so obsessed with protecting you?”

There are a lot of words in there Castiel doesn’t know, but that’s the point between he and Charlie, these days. Every moment is another opportunity to learn, this one a greater opportunity than most.

Dean, it seems, did not have the easiest of childhoods. Castiel has no baseline for comparison, but according to Charlie, he and his brother’s—Sam’s—upbringing was unorthodox to say the least, perhaps more aptly described as abusive. When Dean was four years old, his house caught on fire, killing his mother. After that, his father, John, was never the same. He became obsessed with the idea that someone was out to murder the rest of his family, became deeply involved with radical survivalist groups and took his children on a futile hunt across the country for the person responsible for that fire. Dean grew up a soldier of a war that didn’t exist—able to shoot a gun before he could tie his shoes. He grew up in the big black car he still drives (an “Impala” named “Baby”). Nights in the backseat were broken up by days in cheap motels. Dean raised his little brother when he was still a child, himself.

When Dean got arrested for trying to shoplift the ingredients for a PB&J, child services got involved. Child services is an institution put in place to protect children, even from their own families.

At this point, Dean had been—Charlie had used the word _confused_ —and that he wasn’t certain which reality was the real one: this war his father had been insisting on, or the story of his unstable and unsafe paternal figure. He’d eventually gone back with his father to take care of his brother.

And his father had gotten worse.

John had what he’d called a _breakthrough in the case_ , citing the government itself as the ones behind the murder. He’d alienated all but one of the survivalists in the US network—one Bobby Singer—and had planned to take his children down to Mexico in an effort to prevent anyone splitting up his family. He was convinced Mary (Dean’s mother) had known too much about something important, and some secret branch of the government had killed her for it. That they were now after the rest of them was further proof. Mary’s alleged knowledge changed depending on the day: sometimes he said she knew about state-sanctioned terrorists, other times he insisted she’d known about alien life forms or monsters the government was covering up. Aliens seemed to have particularly good traction among certain groups, and whether for that reason or something having to do with John’s illness, became the reason that stuck.

They had been living in a compound with a dozen other Star Soldiers when they’d been found. The FBI had taken all children into custody. Twelve at this point, Dean had been grown enough to understand what was happening. He and Sam had spent six months bouncing, separately, from temporary home— _foster home_ —to temporary home before finally settling with Bobby Singer.

“…You’re living proof that his dad wasn’t crazy,” Charlie explains gently. “Which is also why he isn’t your biggest fan.”

Castiel frowns. He doesn’t want any part of this. He doesn’t want to be on this planet, and he certainly doesn’t want to be used as some symbol. Gritting his teeth, the star gives a quick shake of his head. “No want.”

“Castiel, this is why he—”

“ _No want_ ,” Castiel hisses. “No want in it. No Dean. No John. No want.”

Charlie gives him a pitying look. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But you don’t get to decide that.”

Narrowing his eyes, the star feels heat begin to settle at his palms. Tucking them under his armpits, he gets up off the steps only to storm to the treeline, curling up under a tall oak. It isn’t fair—if he’s to be stuck on this planet, he’d at the very least like to have control over what people use him as. He doesn’t want to be the link between Dean and the complicated relationship he had with his father. He wants to be a person worthy of respect of his own right. He _is_ worthy of that.

Charlie gives him about fifteen minutes to stew by himself before she joining him. With her, she brings a piece of leftover pizza. Castiel turns away. If she thinks she can win him over with one of the better foods he’s tried, she’s delusional.

“Castiel, this has nothing to do with who you are, you get that, right? It’s just how Dean sees you.”

Rolling his eyes, the star scoffs, pointedly not looking at the pizza slice despite the sudden growl of his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he can see Charlie vindictively stuff the food into her own mouth, muttering while she chews. “Honestly, you guys deserve each other. You hear me, Castiel? You and Dean are the _same_.” She eats more pizza. “Too freaking selfish to think about what the other one is feeling.”

The star pointedly ignores her until she goes away.

Any comparison between Castiel and a human is ridiculous. He is superior in literally every way there is to best someone. Besides, he isn’t _selfish_. Humans are selfish! Dean is selfish. So is Charlie, for that matter—always wanting Castiel to talk or learn for what? For her own selfish desire to keep him. And Dean, well. Certainly, he may have had a difficult childhood, but he has no right to use Castiel in order to fulfill some latent need to reject or be close to his deceased father. Up until recently, Dean had no idea he existed.

Castiel, on the other hand, has hundreds of years of experience watching humans. They killed his sister among some of his other siblings, and he has every right to condemn their species for both those acts and his own observations.

Grumbling to himself, the star waits as long as possible before banging his way into the house and getting a piece of pizza for himself.

 _The same._ Ha. The very idea is laughable.

 

 

An unknown number calls him three times before Dean bites the bullet and takes it in his room.

“Heya, Sammy.”

Sam’s voice is so goddamn loud Dean needs to hold his phone a foot away from his ear. “ _What the fuck, Dean. What the_ fuck _. I’ve been calling for three days!_ ”

“I know, I—”

“ _I’m in Bobby’s freaking panic room with a burner phone because you—I don’t even know what you did, but the goddamn CIA is after you!_ ”

“Look, it ain’t that simple—”

“ _It is_ exactly _that simple! Jesus, didn’t we promise each other we’d keep our noses clean?! Didn’t we swear we’d never get involved in anything shady or weird ever again so we’d never have to—?_ ”

“Seriously, Sam—”

“ _You’re such a goddamn child!_ ”

“JESUS CHRIST LET ME FINISH.”

Silence.

“…Thank you. Look, this is gonna sound impossible—don’t interrupt!” He takes a deep breath. “I found an alien.”

A beat. “ _An alien_.”

“Ah. Yeah. In a crater on the way home.”

“ _You mean the crater in the Nevada desert big enough to house a fucking Costco, that crater?_ ”

“Yep.”

Sam scoffs against his ear. “ _Fuck off, Dean. After everything we’ve been through I can’t believe you’d use this as your goddamn lie—_ ”

“It ain’t a lie! Sam, listen to me. Dad was right, okay? About aliens. The fire was just a fire, but this? This thing is humanoid, and likes PB&J and pizza, and has the most surreal friggin’ blue eyes you’ve ever seen. He’s scruffy and weird and is still learning English. Stuff _grows_ wherever he walks. His palms turn this glowy blue when he’s angry or stressed out and it can end up in a fourth degree burn.”

“ _This isn’t funny_.”

“And I ain't laughin'. What do you need as proof, huh? You want a picture? To talk to him? Gotta be honest, the dude has like a five word vocabulary at this point, but he can definitely say ‘hello’.”

Sam voice sounds strangled when it next comes through the receiver. “ _You’re serious_.”

“As a heart attack.”

“ _Shit._ Shit.” There’s rummaging over the line. “ _Dean, they searched our apartment and took all your old sci-fi stuff as evidence. They came to Bobby’s and started asking him all these questions about our childhood. I didn’t tell them anything—and he didn’t either, but we’re in the system for exactly this kinda thing_.”

“Uh huh.”

“ _They know where all the safehouses are_.”

“Not Rufus’s.”

“ _And how long d’you think it’s gonna take for them to find it, exactly? They’re the US government, they have nearly unlimited resources. And when they find you, they’re not gonna give you a slap on the wrist and cite a troubled childhood… They’re gonna lock you up. They’re gonna put you in jail because you took something of theirs and you’re easy to bury_.”

“It’ll be fine, Samantha.”

“ _You have to turn it in_.”

“Wait, _what_ —”

“ _Turn it in. Hand it over. Give it up—_ ”

“Sorry, I think I just lost you. I could’ve sworn my bleeding heart brother just suggested I _turn him in._ ”

“ _Dean, I’m serious_.”

“So am I! If they can’t treat a couple human kids with respect, how d’you think they’re gonna treat some potentially dangerous alien? I won’t have his blood on my hands.”

“ _And I won’t let you go to jail_.”

“No one’s going to jail, Sammy.” He takes a deep breath. “Sides, Castiel’s dangerous, but not blindly violent.”

“ _Yet._ ”

“Yet,” Dean allows. “I want him off this goddamn planet as much as the next guy, but we can’t get him home right now, so we’re keeping him until Charlie figures that out.”

Sam’s quiet for a long time. “ _…You call it a ‘he’_ ,” he points out. “ _And you call it by its name. Better be careful about that._ ”

“I’m really hating this role-reversal thing,” Dean forces himself to joke. “You’re the one who should be caring about pronouns.”

Sam sighs. “ _I do, I just… I’m not gonna lie and say I’m not really fucking worried about you. But I’ll admit that there’s definitely a part of me that’s supremely jealous and wishes I was the one on the run from the government_.”

“Well the alien is also a grumpy dickhead, so. Count your blessings. Yesterday, he charred my favourite pair of socks ‘cause he happened to be holding them when I slammed the door too hard.”

“ _He’s probably just scared_.”

“Yeah, that’s what Charlie keeps telling me, but I still don’t trust him. He’s a person, fine, he’s proved that… but I ain’t gonna throw him a party when the guy can kill me with hard shove. Anyway, Charlie just finished up our last supply run, and we’re good in here for at least another month. Call to check-in every couple days, but you know the drill. Just act natural.”

“ _I really thought we were fucking done with this survivalist bullshit_.”

Dean bites his lip. “Me too, Sammy. M’sorry.”

“ _Don’t be_ ,” Sam gives a humourless little laugh. “ _That’s just our luck, right?_ ”

“Yeah. Hey, say hi to Eileen for me when you get back, okay? And to Bobby.”

“ _He’s gonna kill me if he doesn’t talk to you. I promised him he would_.”

“You know the less time we spend on the phone, the better.”

“ _Dean—_ ”

“Just, ah. Fill him in for me, okay?”

“Dean—”

“Bye, Sammy.”

Fuck.

 

 

Castiel watches through the crack in the door, frowning, as Dean slumps onto his mattress. The male presses his palms to his eyes in a gesture of the truly hopeless, before growling and throwing his phone across the room. The device hits the wall with a crack before falling to the floor in pieces, but Dean doesn’t move beyond throwing an eye on it to make sure it’s been thoroughly broken. He says: _fuck_.

Dean has only recently started using male pronouns when referring to him, but the vehemence with which he defended him to his brother is nothing short of dumbfounding. Wrapping arms around himself, the star quietly makes his way outside. Dean is incredibly easy to read, knowing all this. He is simple. Predictable.

More easily managed than Charlie.

 

 

Dean finds Charlie furiously typing on her laptop, GPS Internet stick blinking merrily from one of her USB ports. The others are all plugged into different things, the kitchen table a nest of wires and little flashing boxes as she frowns at the screen.

“You ditch your phone?” she asks without looking up.

“Yeah,” Dean groans, throwing himself onto the couch. “Threw it against the wall.” A sigh. “Can you cancel my phone plan? I don’t want Sammy to keep paying for it.”

“Already done.”

“Great. Uh… where is he?”

“He?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “ _Castiel_.”

“Probably outside.” She curses at something on screen, violently slamming the backspace key three times.

“You know you’re gonna have to tell him to stay in. It’s bad enough you let him roam free for the past ten days, but Sammy just told me they went to him and Bobby. Shit’s serious.”

Frowning, Charlie turns in her chair. “He can’t stay inside.”

“Why not.”

“Because it’s too small. He said he feels claustrophobic.”

“He said that.”

“After I taught _claustrophobic_ to him, yeah.”

Fucking fantastic. “Well, you’re gonna have to figure something out, because from now on, Baby is parked and covered, and we barely use light or go out. We’re on lockdown. Hell, the only thing we have going for us right now is that he hasn’t been anywhere spreading his weirdness.”

“Uh.” Charlie coughs. “Yeah. About that.”

She looks sheepish, smiling nervously as she looks at him expectantly, like that look is just supposed to soften the blow somehow. Like he’s not supposed to be upset that their biggest advantage apparently just went up in smoke.

“I kinda… brought him to the grocery store? I mean, c’mon, what’s more human than picking out bananas in an air-conditioned—”

Dean’s eyes twitches. “You mean the fucking _mini-mart_?”

“We were trying different foods! I wanted to give him options!”

A mini-mart. A fucking _mini-mart_ , because they’re so far up Montana’s asshole regular grocery stores don’t exist. And by now, all fifteen people who live in the closest town forty-five minutes away probably know about the weird guy who makes things grow.

“Look, I admit it was a lapse in judgment—”

“A lapse in judgment?” Dean echoes, much more calmly than he feels. “Charlie, a lapse in judgment is buying three cartons of milk when you only need two. It’s thinking you have enough gas and running out five miles to station. Buying a limited edition Wonder Woman figurine for 3k even though you only have that much in your account. A lapse in fucking judgment is _not_ taking the alien, who makes things fucking grow wherever he stands, to a fucking mini-mart in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Montana!”

“You’re overreacting. He had sunglasses on! No one noticed—”

“Really?!” Dean demands. “No one noticed plants just _springing up_ all around the store—”

“ _No_ , they _didn’t_ , you fucking asshat. What the hell is your problem?!”

“My problem?!” Dean feels an ugly laugh bubble from his throat, roughly dragging hands over his skull. “Jesus fucking Christ, Charlie, this isn’t a game! Trust me, when the United States wants their hands on something, they’ll damn well get it. Dad was so off the grid he had no idea what the grid even _looked like_ , but in a couple years, they found a crazy old man and his fucked up kids… what kind of resources you think they’re gonna use to get at a potential threat, huh? ’Cause I’m thinkin’ everyone!”

“The FBI found you guys by accident—”

“That is so _not the point_! Charlie… you have access to all this shit about the government and you didn’t think it might be a good idea to keep the plant-fairy quarantined to the house?!”

“Fuck you, Dean. I said I was sorry—”

“Well, _thank God for that_!” Dean can feel it, the way his spine straightens and his eyes turn hard. Charlie flinches as he steps into boots left behind by John Winchester’s ghost. “I’ll tell the suits who bring us to some underground facility if they don’t kill us first!”

“You’re so overdramatic. We’ll be fine!”

“You just put us all in jeopardy.”

His vision swims when he turns away, hiding the image of her, red-faced and teary and _furious_. He can feel her glaring at his back. But this isn’t a game, and it isn’t a science project. These are their lives they’re talking about. He takes a step towards the door to find someplace safe for Baby when Charlie’s voice stops him dead.

“You know, John Winchester really isn’t a good look on you.”

Despite the fact that Dean flinches when the words hit their mark, he forces himself to take another step. And another. And another. So he’s acting like his dad, so what? Turns out his dad was right about a lot of things. Maybe if he’d been grateful instead of a snot-nosed kid, if he’d actually continued his dad’s work instead of treating his childhood like some shameful void, they wouldn’t be here. Because the soldier John raised wasn’t raised to let monsters live, and sure as hell didn’t let civilians put the group in danger.

Then again, maybe nothing’s really changed: Dean always was a disappointment.

 

 

Castiel has spent the last five days prowling around the house like a Big Cat in a nature documentary. At least, he thinks this is the best analogy for how he itches beneath his skin, and feels his hands start to shake. Charlie and Dean are gone for hours during the day, doing something called _setting up a perimeter_. When they come inside, they don’t speak to one another: Dean sits in front of the television, and Charlie goes to her laptop.

Barring mealtimes, where Dean is never present, Castiel’s contact with the female is nonexistent. This is jarring compared to the veritable onslaught of affection and attention she’d formerly lavished upon him… and he’s confused to find that he thinks he misses it.

That being said, things are better than they were yesterday and the days previous—when the air in the house was so thick and tense it forced him in a corner of the bed and choked him—but it’s still… uncomfortable. It’s as if they’re all living in their own universes, which is fine for the humans, but Castiel is bored. And wildly unhappy.

His skin is red from scratching because Dean yelled at him for taking four cold showers in as many hours. He isn’t allowed to go outside, or stay close to the windows, or actively use his powers in any way, shape, or form. He can’t turn on lights when it gets dark. He can’t open windows when it gets hot. He sweats through all his clothes but cannot run around nude—the most he’s allowed is his underwear, and even then, Dean will glare at him until he puts on a smelly shirt. His beard is unruly and itches his face, and he doesn’t understand why he has one and Dean and Charlie do not. He’s hungry. Not for food—there’s more than enough of that, though their supply is dwindling exponentially due to Charlie’s snacking habits—but for _more_ , somehow. He needs more than these two rooms and the television. He needs _air_.

There’s only so much staring at books that he can’t read, or watching television he can half-understand, or making secret homes for ants, he can do before he goes insane.

It takes him three days to find where Dean’s hidden the key to the cabin’s back door.

Dean is many things, but brilliant is not one of them. Being human works against him in this regard, but Castiel thinks that even for a human, he isn’t particularly intelligent. He’s hidden the key under the small carpet in front of the back door.

The star’s hands shake as he takes the cool, serrated piece of metal and slides it into the lock, just as he’d been observing the humans for the duration of his quarantine. It slides in like a knife through butter, and it takes a good amount of time after that to turn the thing the correct way and unlock it.

A cracking sound rings out in the hallway as things slide into place, and Castiel stays still as a lamp, unmoving, breath held as he waits for the inevitable sound of Dean thundering out of his room and… and what? Hurting him? Possibly. Castiel is under the impression that the male would have no qualms hurting someone by citing it as for their own protection. After all, he seemed to have done so to Charlie, during one of their arguments. She’d refused to be near him for days.

The air is sweeter than he remembers, and he quickly sheds all his clothing. The breeze against his posterior feels so wonderful he almost cries. Of all the rules he’s been forced to adhere to indoors, the rule about clothing is the worst. The only reason it exists in the first place is for human propriety; that, and on the off-chance some poor soul comes knocking at the door. Dean’s idea, no doubt. It’s idiotic.

Anyone looking at Castiel will know he’s inhuman with or without clothes on.

The callouses on his feet catch against the uneven wood as leans out as far as he can without stepping off the porch, closing his eyes and humming in contentment. He can hear insects and rodents and frogs. He can hear plants growing.

It’s beautiful.

Sighing, the star lays himself out on the unforgiving wood, bundling his clothing in a makeshift pillow as he allows his eyes to drift shut. He would’ve liked to be on softer dirt, but the evidence of that would’ve been too damning. Better to play along with these inane games and sleep outside every night than become greedy and get locked in a bedroom—a little extra growth on a house already being eaten by greenery is not as noticeable as a patch of wildflowers in the middle of the yard.

He supposes he should be grateful, he thinks, breathing deep to the very bottom of his lungs. He supposes he should thank his captors for their hospitality, and their sacrifice, and all they’re currently doing for him. That he should consider himself lucky that he wasn’t found by someone cruel. But like Dean, Castiel doesn’t trust his new companions. Humanity does nothing out the goodness of their hearts—their hearts have no goodness in them—so what are Dean and Charlie gaining from this?

He considers running for one very _very_ brief moment. He could, easily. He could leave this place and hurt whoever comes after him. He could hurt the humans in the house, preemptively, to ensure they _don’t_ come after him. One way or another, they’d probably deserve it.

But he won’t do that, because whatever awaits him out there is worlds more risky than what’s happening here. He doesn’t know what kind of cage other humans would force him into, but this one is gilded. And while he waits here, practically bound within an inch of his life, Charlie works to get him home on her laptop.

That promise, even from the mouth of a human, is priceless.

  


 

“Hey, uh… this seat taken?”

Charlie barely acknowledges Dean, giving him a half-shrug as she keeps typing. He stands there awkwardly for a second, shifting side-to-side, before finally biting the bullet and pulling out the only chair not draped in wires and tech. It makes a groaning sound when it drags across the wood floor, and Dean winces under his breath. Charlie barely contains her smirk. Good.

Just to be even more of an asshole, the minute he sits, she starts plugging in her headphones.

“Charlie, c’mon.”

She viciously pushes the buds into her ear, mouthing an over exaggerated: _can’t hear you_.

“Jesus. I’m _sorry_.”

She narrows her eyes.

“I am, okay? I’m really sorry.”

Charlie raises a brow, eyes searching his for any kind of douchery before hesitantly nodding. “Fine.” She turns back to her work. Judging by the way Dean’s fingers tap obsessively on his thigh, she figures she probably has three minutes before he starts asking about her progress.

He only holds out for two.

“So, uh… whatcha workin’ on?”

Sighing, Charlie swivels around, leveling Dean with a _look_. “I know I’ve been irresponsible, okay? I get that. I know that I should’ve wiped all the traffic cams and starting trolling message boards and government emails for any mention of us like the second we got here. I get that. I’ve been way too into Jane Goodall’ing this shit, but I figured I’m so off the grid there was no reason to worry. I forgot about you, and I’m sorry for that.”

Dean nods. “Okay…”

“For all intents and purposes, we don’t exist anymore. We’re not legally dead—that shit’s like impossible to come back from—but it’ll be a definite challenge for them to find us. Coupled with the cameras we set up, this place is as close to secure as it’s gonna get.”

“Awesome. I set up a couple trip wires around the perimeter, too, and set some traps for prey. With the way Castiel attracts animals, we’ll hopefully catch enough to keep us fed without having to go into town.”

“You know, I like that you call him by his name, now.” She bites back a smile when Dean rolls his eyes, a light blush painting the apples of his cheeks. “But don’t count on us never having to go grocery shopping again. We’re gonna need milk and veggies, ‘cause I’m not eating those military-issue powder meals you stuffed under the sink.”

“Charlie, this is non-negotiable—”

“It is, though, because no one knows who I am, or what I look like. So I can go into town—disguised, if it makes you feel better, because I’m great at disguises—and I’ll get the groceries. Oh! And don’t tell Castiel about the animal traps. We don’t want to give him more reason to hate us.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Where does he think packaged meat comes from?”

“He doesn’t eat it.”

Watching Dean’s brain glitch at the knowledge that Castiel is vegetarian is kind of the most amazing thing Charlie’s seen all day. “Hey, this is good, right? More meat for us, and I just have to pick up beans and stuff up from the mini-mart.”

“…Fine.” The word is ground out between Dean’s clench teeth and Charlie blows him a kiss, smirking when his eyes rolls yet again. “Here,” he says gruffly, reaching back for something and placing _a literal firearm_ on the table. “This is the other thing I wanted to give you.”

Charlie can barely look at it. “Uh, thanks but… no thanks, cowboy.”

“Look, you gotta learn to defend yourself. If it’s between you or the alien, these guys won’t hesitate—”

“You know,” she interrupts, narrowing her eyes. “This military general, my-way-or-the-highway thing you got going on might be pretty hot for the bedroom, but it’s really starting to annoy, Winchester.”

He’s frustrated. Charlie can tell by the clench of his jaw. “I’m trying to keep you _safe_.”

“And I get that,” she says. Gently, to keep the explosive arguing to a minimum. “I appreciate it. But, Dean… this past week, you’ve been like a totally different person. No one can talk to you, or look at you, or be in the same freaking room with you without you biting their head off. I haven’t had any face time with Castiel _at all_ since you yelled me into next week, I haven’t been able to teach him how to make a cold compress to calm down his itching, or cut up some of his clothes so they’re less hot, or—”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Holy Hermione, Mr. Broken Record, I’m not saying it is! I’m just saying maybe… be less John’s Dean and more Sammy’s. How much better are we than the assholes who want to cut him up for science stew if he’s miserable?”

Dean pauses, here, thoughtful, before scoffing and getting up, nodding to the gun. “I know you have a vague idea how to use that. Keep it in a safe place away from Castiel. We start training tomorrow afternoon.”

And then he takes a key from his pocket and walks out the front door.

“The fragility of the male ego, folks,” she mutters as he stalks off, presumably to check his traps or something equally as manly. “ _Oh hey, Charlie, you need anything while your back cramps up in these gross chairs?_ No thanks, Dean, I’m good. _Oh hey, Charlie, don’t let Castiel anywhere near your gun because he’s the one who needs to protect him ‘cause we won’t let him use his powers, but it’s too dangerous to teach him?_ Okay, Dean. _Oh hey, Charlie, great work siphoning money for this little venture out of Amazon and the Trump campaign, also known as the epicentres of all evil._ My pleasure, Dean, it was nothing. Ugh.”

Rubbing at her eyes, she stares at her computer screen for the millionth time, biting her lip. “Oh hey, Dean, remember when I promised Castiel we’d send him home? Yeah, there’s literally no way for us to do that. _No problem, Charlie, we’ll deal with it_.” She shakes her head blowing a raspberry. “As if.”

  
  


 

 

**DAY THIRTY-SEVEN**

_”I didn’t feel like a giant. I felt very, very small.”_

                                                              — Neil Armstrong on looking back at the Earth from the Moon in July 1969.

 

 

It has been thirty-seven Earth-turns and ten percent of a turn around the sun, and nothing has changed. Certainly, Castiel knows how to bathe, now, and brush his teeth, and urinate. He knows how to dress and what he does and does not enjoy eating (relatively speaking). He sleeps. Dreams. Bleeds.

And he is no closer to returning home.

Certainly, this was something Charlie promised she would do, but Castiel knows, too, the ways that humans lie. He knows that she has done nothing to keep her promise, and has instead insisted he grow a _garden_. He knows that she speaks in riddles and teaches him and grooms him, and that she has layers of thought and emotion which no doubt point to her capacity for carefully calculated violence. He knows that deep in her heart she may feel for him, but human feeling is truly only driven by hate and aggression and morbid curiosity, and so her feelings here bear little weight to the novelty of him as a plaything.

And when that novelty wears off…

Dean, at least, does not pretend to be anything other than what he is. He may speak in a way that is generally opaque, but the speech of his movements is clear in its anger and frustration. Hate is perhaps too strong a word for it, but dislike is appropriate. Strong dislike. Dean is uncomplicated: he is standoffish, ornery, and angry. Consistent. A brute: simple and simple-minded, and therefore incapable of deception… he is emotionally intelligent, with none of the analytical ruthlessness Charlie possesses. Therefore, he is the one who will most likely speak Truth.

Castiel waits until Charlie has left the small house to go—somewhere. She spoke too fast for him to be sure. But she is gone, and Dean is in the tiny kitchen, stirring something on the stove. He is alone, tensed in Castiel’s presence, and the star steels himself. He will ask right now. This human may cut an intimidating figure, big and worldly as he is, but Castiel is celestial. He is cooperating of his own free will, and he is advantaged, here.

But then Dean turns around and scoops the meal into plates, and Castiel loses his nerve.

After eating, then. Once Castiel has fed this body, he will demand answers from Dean.

Castiel corners him after supper, palms sweating as he clears his throat. But either Dean doesn’t hear him, or ignores his presence, because he continues washing up at the kitchen sink. The star takes a breath and coughs obviously. Nothing. Blue eyes narrowing, frustration and anger overwhelms him, crackling at his fingertips as Castiel takes a deliberate step into Dean’s space, shaking him hard by the shoulder. The human yelps, whirling around with a murderous look in his eye as he steps forward, causing Castiel to take an instinctive one back. Dean looks pleased at this, and Castiel curls his lip. “Home,” he says simply. “Castiel home. Yes?”

“Yeah, man, Charlie’s workin’ on it.”

“No Charlie,” Castiel hisses, put on edge by the mention of her name. “Dean. Castiel. Talk. Only Dean, Castiel. Dean know Castiel home? Dean know clock?”

“Clock?” Dean repeats. “Nah, I don’t know any clocks. Hey—hey, what’re you—”

“ _Clock_ ,” Castiel emphasizes, coming back with the disk on the far wall. He shakes it in front of Dean’s face. “Clock Castiel home.”

Green eyes narrow, and a brow raises, unimpressed. “You mean time? You wanna know how much time until you go home?”

“Time,” Castiel echoes, tasting the word on his tongue.

Dean nods. “Or you coulda just asked _when_.”

“When?”

“Yeah, when is like time. Ish.”

“When… like time-ish.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

They fall into silence, studying each other before Castiel decides he’s had enough. Clearly, he will have to ask this evolutionary disaster again: “When?” he demands. “When Castiel home?”

Dean rolls his eyes with something akin to annoyance. “I dunno, man, that’s Charlie’s thing—”

“ _No Charlie_ ,” Castiel spits again. “ _When_?”

Dean seems to hesitate before telling him, his face softening is something akin to… to _pity_. It’s enough to have Castiel’s blood boiling. He doesn’t want _pity_ from this _ape._ “I, uh. I dunno.”

Unacceptable.

Castiel’s hands turn to fists at his side as he shakes his head sharply. “No,” he says, tone brooking no argument. “ _No_.”

“Look, it’s Charlie’s thing, I don’t—”

But Castiel isn’t listening. “No. Castiel home. Castiel home _now_.”

“Castiel, there’s no way—”

“NO.”

“There’s nothing I can do—”

Castiel feels frustration gather in his chest once more, tears collecting in his eyes as he growls and violently grabs Dean’s wrist, pulling him to the back door. He is so angry and upset it takes nothing to pull the thing off its hinges, nothing to mangle the metal handle and burn through skin. He carelessly throws Dean to the ground, viciously pointing to the sky, voice rough and raw as he pulls the word _home_ from his limited human vocabulary. He points to himself stiffly, and then to the sky once more.

“Ah! Ow ow, ah, fuck! Cas, I know, but—”

Despite not knowing most of his words, Castiel knows that tone and he growls again, shaking his head tearfully as he pushes Dean from where he’s moving to stand. The human collapses on the floor with a grunt, watching with that stupid helpless look on his face as Castiel feels his skin itch and pull and his chest turn tight. He points to the sky again, angrily: “No home!”

“Cas—”

“Castiel no home?” the star spits. “No home—no no no—” He frowns, thinking of a word, _any word_ , that will communicate how he—what he—“ _End_ ,” he says.

“What? I don’t—”

Throwing himself on the ground too, Castiel presses his hand to Dean’s mouth with a bruising amount of force. He can feel wetness trickling down his cheeks and carelessly moves his head to wipe himself on the shoulder of his shirt, blue eyes staring unflinchingly into Dean’s green. “Castiel _no home_ ,” he hisses through his tears, pointing manically at the sky with his free hand. “ _No home?_ Castiel _end._ Dean _end Castiel_.”

Dean wriggles out of Castiel’s grasp. “Cas—”

“Dean _please_ ,” Castiel begs. “ _Please_ end Castiel!”

“Cas, I can’t—”

“No home!” the star yells. “No home… Castiel _hurt_! END! END, DEAN!”

“Cas, stop!”

“No stop!” Castiel may not know exactly what _stop_ means, but he can understand the gist of it. He can understand that this puny, ridiculous man refuses to help him. That he’d let his kin rip an innocent limb from limb before sacrificing his own ridiculous ‘morals’. “NO STOP! END CASTIEL!”

Humans are selfish, vile creatures. How could he have been so stupid to think for even a minute that Dean would be any different?

“Cas, please—”

“No Cas please—Dean please! Dean end—”

“NO.” There’s something hard about Dean’s eyes now, sharp and determined. Castiel hates it.

Curling his lip, the star narrows his eyes, giving a stiff nod as he tries not to make those _stupid_ crying noises. Instead, he takes note of the slight glow to his hands and stands, marching towards the house. The door almost flies off its hinges with the amount of force he uses to open it. With righteous fury, Castiel walks into the kitchen and begins opening cupboards and pulling out drawers, pushing Dean away like a particularly annoying mass of useless matter as the human claws at his arms and back.

Castiel knows, now, the only way to go home; perhaps he’d always known, beneath the idiocy of his hope and complacency. A human is, after all, technically made of starstuff. And in this closed-system of a Universe, matter is finite. What did Charlie call it?

 _Recycling_.

The act of using a thing or its parts for something else, of not letting it go to waste. It would take a long time, even by celestial standards—he will most likely cycle through the short and long carbon cycles many times before the planet is done for or parts of him are swept back into Space, but he has nothing but time. Whether or not his consciousness will remain is an unknown variable in this equation, but one he thinks he’s willing to risk. Death is a better alternative to both the gentle captivity here and the violence that awaits him beyond the limited lands of this decrepit house.

Besides, how did he truly expect to return to home? Be tied to a rocket and brought there in this… this _disgusting_ , confined sack of meat? Destined to roam the universe for all eternity trapped and frozen in this form? That would perhaps be even more painful.

Finally finding what he’s been looking for, Castiel turns around and brings the sharp object up to chest height, shaking, but angled just above his own heart. “Dean no end?” Castiel grunts, shoving the human away for the umpteenth time. He bites his lip, trembling. Stupid evolutionary biology, he _wants_ this. “Castiel end.”

“Cas, no—!”

The knife glances off his side, slicing easily through shirt and flesh. Dean’s hand makes a move for the object and Cas presses a forearm to his chest. He pushes with all his strength, crying out when Dean falls back with the knife. Following him, the star falls to his knees and _grabs_.

They grapple.

Hands push, feet kick, an elbow is delivered to Castiel’s side and he can hear the crunch of Dean’s nose as their heads smack together. It’s desperate, and violent, and Cas isn’t sure what he’s saying but can feel himself vocalizing, all the way from the pit of his stomach he’s yelling—

And then the knife is embedded in Dean’s chest, and everything stops.

Castiel feels as if he is trapped in a vortex, perpetually experiencing the ‘snick’ of metal sliding between ribs and the soft, strangled sound that follows. There is gasping, and wheezing, and crying, and someone is gurgling phrases that Cas is too frantic to hear because there is blood, too, spilling out onto the wood and seeping through the floorboards and Castiel never understood the term _lifeblood_ but he does, now—he can see it in the way green eyes become unfocused and Dean’s body seizes under his hands.

More terrifying than Falling, than waking up on a strange planet with the certainty of his own death… is watching someone else expire. Castiel is trembling, eyes wide and mouth open in total shock and he is frozen in place wanting to move and knowing he has to, but all he can think is that _it was a mistake an accident I’m sorry howhowhow_.

“H…umans don’ need a th-third ventilation… hole… dumbass…”

Dean sounds like he’s breathing underwater. Castiel _moves_.

He carelessly pulls the knife from the human’s body, throwing it indiscriminately behind him before pressing a palm, hard, to the wound. It pulses sluggishly under his hand, somehow both sticky and slick, and nothing is happening _nothing is happening_.

Suddenly, his palms glow blue.

Castiel _pulls_ for all he’s worth, tugging at someone indescribable part of himself and pushing it towards the injury, ignoring Dean’s cries of pain and protest as he squeezes his eyes shut and forces tissue and muscle back together. Grunting, loud and pained from exertion, he multiples cells and knits flesh. It isn’t until he’s certain that Dean Winchester’s unconscious body is completely healed that he collapses himself.

 

 

There is lifeblood drenching his hands. It stains the palms of his human body, seeping into the flesh until it is a part of him, until Castiel is human down to his protons and neutrons—bound to their species and culture and behaviour by his violence.

 _Murderer_.

Red presses to his lips, dripping down his chin as he presses his lips shut. There is a vice, prying open his mouth but he refuses he will not drink he will not—

“Castiel!”

Cas’s eyes fly open, pale blue and wild. He is shaking—his hands and breath and body—but none of that matters because he is clean and safe and totally himself. Castiel’s hands are not red. He is not choking on someone else’s blood. And there are green eyes, wide and terrified, staring.

Cas does not know what he’s doing until it’s happening. He mutters to himself, a string of noises he hopes sound even remotely understandable to human ears as hands fly forward to push at Dean’s various articles of clothing until Castiel is looking at an unblemished biped (free of scars, though Dean seems to have plenty of those melanin deposits marring his skin). He is whole. He is safe. Alive.

Whatever universe Cas had just been inhabiting, he’s escaped from there.

Castiel doesn’t know he needs to touch the healed wound until he has a hand on bare, warm skin, pressing lightly. His shoulders slump in relief, blue eyes slipping shut as he lets himself fall forward. Dean’s body is there to brace him. His forehead presses against the human’s collarbone, tears squeezing out from his closed eyes as his chest heaves with breath. Thank the ever-expanding Universe that this fragile thing sits alive before him because if he didn’t—if Castiel, had… had…

There is some kind of hesitation holding tension in Dean’s body before the human unravels and sinks his fingers in dark hair, hushing and shushing in a soft, low voice. “You’re okay… you’re okay…”

Castiel exhales a deep, shaking breath. He knows _okay_. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be okay again. But Dean is, somehow. He’s real and here.

And that’s all that matters.

Carefully, the human moves to place a hand atop Castiel own, pressing his palm hard into the warm, live flesh and breathing deep. It’s as if he’s demonstrating just how alive he is, and this kindness is so overwhelming—Castiel had killed him, he had been dead on the kitchen floor—that the star cannot help the desperate, thankful, pitiful cries of Dean’s name. He doesn’t know the words for gratitude.

They stay there for a long time, until the human clears his throat and moves, gently pushing Castiel away to face him. The star does not want to look. By all rights, this man should have killed him. Humans are violent and vengeful and Castiel should be dead. _Wanted_ to be dead. He doesn’t understand what use Dean has for him alive.

His chin is tilted up, green eyes catching blue in a look so intense and conflicted Castiel cannot fathom how he’ll ever be able to look away. His bottom lip trembles again, water spilling down his cheeks. He flinches when Dean brings up a hand to wipe the wetness away, green gaze turning pitying. Though his hands are calloused and rough, they are somehow made gentle, here. It is such a contrast to their previous interactions that Castiel is left reeling. “ _Dean_ ,” the star says, serious and upset and _sorry_. He is so sorry.

Dean, wondrously, seems to understand. He nods, pursing his lips before taking off the topmost of his shirts and draping it over Castiel’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Cas,” he says. “It was an accident. I…” He struggles here, before setting his shoulders. “I forgive you. Understand?”

Castiel stares blankly.

“It’s okay,” Dean repeats. “Promise.”

But it’s not. “No,” the star says. “No okay. Castiel hurt Dean too much. Almost… almost…”

“It’s… it’s okay,” Dean repeats. He nods as if convincing himself. “I mean, what I was scared of happened, right? You—you killed someone. But… you also brought me back.” He pauses here, chewing his lip. “Charlie was right about you, wasn’t she? You’re not dangerous, you’re just scared. Just lost.”

Though Castiel can catch some of the words Dean uses, most are unknown to him. Still, the star does not allow his gaze to waver. “Lost?” he asks.

“Yeah,” the human says, something new behind the green of his eyes. “Lost.”

And that’s the end of that.

 

 

Things both do and do not return to what had previously settled into normal; Charlie, for one, returns to spending almost every waking moment with him. She helps bathe him, and clothe him, and makes sure he’s fed and watered when he’s too weak to feed himself.

Dean, however… well, Castiel hasn’t set eyes on him since the star had stumbled from his room two days ago. It’s something that gnaws on the fibres of his heart, though he isn’t entirely certain why. Possibly to ensure the male’s continued wellbeing? To alleviate some latent sense of guilt? To ask about what he’d called him—Cas? Or to simply be around him? If the latter, why?

All this uncertainty has Castiel feeling similarly to when he was first brought to this cabin, though instead of wondering at his current safety, (he’s left that thought to occupy a less urgent corner of his mental faculties,) he’s longing for contact with a human he didn’t even like only a week ago.

Sighing, the star moves to turn onto his side, grunting with the effort of doing so. He supposes being bedridden also lends a certain symmetry to the state he was in upon his arrival—that, and the fact that he’s been mute.

Not for lack of trying on Charlie’s part; she’s been asking him open-ended questions, teasing him, asking his opinion on everything from how he feels to his opinion on the banana slug. (It should be noted that Castiel has no opinion on the banana slug, and in fact had no idea it existed until Charlie pointed it out to him.) Still, the star had remained quiet, resorting to nodding or using rudimentary hand gestures to communicate his wants and needs.

He has no desire to waste his voice on a liar.

This continues for another thirty-six hours. Castiel knows this, because he counts every second of every hour he’s awake trying not to sleep in fear of the universes that come at night. The places where he exists to kill Dean or be killed himself are terrifying, so he entertains himself by ignoring Charlie, and wishing he could go outside, and imaging what he’d say if he should ever speak to Dean. He’s in the middle of counting every leaf on the oak tree just outside his window when something red moves in the corner of his eye. Turning, he rolls his eyes when Charlie sits on the corner of the bed. Though she’s been sleeping in the main room, presumably on the couch, or maybe even with Dean in his room, she starts every morning just like this: sitting there and offering him a mug of herbal tea.

He takes the peace offering with a glare.

 _Go away_.

“Look, I don’t know how they solve problems up there, but down here talking is generally the best way to do it. “

Castiel narrows his eyes mid-count. _332, 333, 334, 335…_

“I haven’t been fair to you,” she continues. “I promised you something I wasn’t sure I could deliver on, and… I can’t keep that promise. And that’s not okay. I’m sorry, Castiel. I made a mistake. But just because we can’t bring you back doesn’t mean me and Dean won’t protect you.”

When he finally manages to understand her thought, Castiel scoffs. Their idea of protection is captivity, and he is no longer interested. “I know,” she grins. “We haven’t been doing so great at that so far. Kinda kept you locked in a cage, huh? But that’s gonna change. I promise.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Promise,” he echoes, disgusted. “Not real.”

“It is,” she insists. “But I get that you can’t believe me. You’ll see, though. Want some tea?”  At his nod, she helps lift the mug to his lips. “I won’t break this promise. In fact,” she says, “I’ll prove it to you right now. Let’s go outside.”

Despite the leap of his heart at those words, the star forces at neutral expression onto his face. He allows himself to be helped to the edge of the bed, then helped into a standing position, then helped out of doors. He can’t hide the way his body relaxes the moment fresh air kisses his face.

There always seems to be wind when he comes from inside, picking up and dying down again once it’s danced around him… like it’s excited to see him, too. Unable to keep the small smile from tugging at the corner of his mouth, Castiel sighs contentedly. If only he could convalesce out here. He’s certain it would take less time.

Already, he feels stronger.

Carefully, stepping out of Charlie’s hold, he stumbles down the stairs, taking a tumble on the grass. Green stains his bare knees, now flecked with pieces of dirt as he sits there, eyes closed, relishing in the feeling of flowers tickling at his skin. The only reason his clothes are still on is because he’s cold.

He hasn’t been outside like this in… many days. Weeks, even, if one divides the days by seven.

“Can I show you something?”

Charlie is at his side, offering a hand, when a bumblebee lands on his knee. She freezes in place, vocalizing a kind of strangled scream as she swats at it, causing Castiel to flinch and the insect to fly away. Crying out, the star extends his hand, encouraging it to land on his index finger.

“Castiel, be careful! They can… sting. Woah.”

As the tiny creature dances on his hand, Cas smiles. He likes bees.

Carefully, Charlie moves to sit beside him, hooking her chin over his shoulder to watch as it crawls around and jiggles in a very specific pattern. “It thinks you’re one of them,” she says softly, watching raptly as it finishes its dance and flies away.

Castiel hums. “Nice.”

“Beautiful,” Charlie agrees. “C’mere, I have something to show you.”

When he takes her proffered hand this time, he’s pulled to his feet in a way that is too much for the weakness in his legs, tripping over his own feet to stumble gracelessly into Charlie’s body with an _oof_. “Sorry!” she says, steadying his waist. They’re extremely close, hips pressed together, his chest against hers. She’s shorter than him by a little bit. He’d never noticed that before.

It’s almost like upright cuddling.

“You okay, Cas?” she asks, smiling. “Hey, is it cool if I call you that? Or do you like Castiel better?”

Cas assumes she’s using _cool_ in the slang context, and gives an awkwardly practiced shrug in response. “Whatever okay.”

“Awesome!”

Her wide smile is infectious, and Castiel soon finds himself grinning back. “Awesome,” he huffs, pleased. “Awesome.” That word had been explained to him in depth—its original meaning right up to its contemporary usage. It was, apparently, a favourite of Dean’s.

 _Awesome_.

Castiel can’t pinpoint why this matters to him.

“Kay, so we’re not going far, but I’m pretty sure you can make it most of the way with like, minimal help. So I’m gonna let go of your waist and we’ll hold hands like we used to when you got here. That sound good? We’re going straight ahead to that purple hanging thing right there. It’s called a _hammock_.”

“Hhhammock.”

“Yeah, exactly! It’s kinda like a bed for outside.”

Castiel stops. _A bed for… outside. A bed. For sleeping. For outside._ **_Outside._ **

Giving the setup more than a cursory glance, he can see how, maybe, the fabric is pulled taught enough to sustain the weight of a human. The trees it’s tied around certain look to be sturdy. And there’s a… small table, high, that’s been placed beside it, for easy access to water or food or maybe even books.

“Cas? Castiel, you alright? Earth to Cas!”

The star snaps out of his thoughts, blue eyes wide and toes curling as something warm and wonderful spreads from his chest all the way to his fingertips. He feels like he’s vibrating, though he isn’t even certain this is what he thinks it is; if this is where he’s going to sleep from now on, with Charlie and Dean’s blessing no less, it’s—it’s…

“Wonderful,” he breathes. “Charlie—”

“Dean helped,” she interrupts, expression bright and soft all at once; like a sunrise, maybe. “He set up the hammock and got it from storage and everything. I figured this’d be way more comfortable, you know? And apparently it’s in a great place to, you know, look up. If you ever wanted to do that at night.”

She’s pulling him towards the hammock, pointing out things Dean has _rigged up_ in order to make it more comfortable. The table has a set of drawers with a pillow and blanket inside, there is a small light tied to the trunk above his head in case he’d like to read at night. And, most importantly, it is totally and completely safe.

“We found some really old solar-powered motion sensors with the hammock, so we set them up at the perimeter. They should work in keeping this place a little safer, but you need to be careful with the lights.”

Castiel understands a generous ten percent of Charlie’s dialogue, but is so focused on looking and touching that everything sounds as if he’s hearing it from another room.

“…You want to try it out?”

The star immediately looks up, pointing to the hammock. “Castiel… try, yes. Please.”

Charlie shows him how to sit and then lie down in the hammock, which the star believes to be idiotic—he’s intimately familiar with the laws of physics, thank you very much—until he sits down and is almost thrown off. “Argh!”

“Shit!”

Throwing out an arm, he grabs the first thing available to him: a branch, one that hadn’t been there a moment before. With wide eyes, the star carefully releases it once he’s found his balance, watching, awed, as it continues to grow forward, this time at a snail’s pace. At this rate, the branch will crowd him in a few hours. _Stop_.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, it ceases in its growth. In all actual fact, it begins to _retreat_.

“Woah.”

Swallowing thickly, Castiel watches as the tree returns to how it was, releasing a breath as Charlie looks at him cautiously; like he’s not some lost soul but a potential danger… someone who has the ability to control the flora instead of an agent of chaos causing it to uncontrollably grow. “So, earth-benders are real,” she says, barking out a laugh tinged with hysteria. “Good to know.”

Castiel doesn’t know what an earth-bender is, but he thinks it might be terrifying.

“We’ll, uh, have to watch _Avatar_ soon. Not _Colonialism: The Movie_ , the other one. The good one. Animated. With Aang and the gang.” A beat. “After we get you settled. You comfy? Need anything?”

With the strangeness leaving her voice, Cas gives a tiny smile, lying back in his new bed with a hum. “Wonderful,” he sighs. Her face softens. Leaning forward, she runs a hand through the overgrown, tangled mess of his hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Glad to hear it, mountain man. Enjoy.”

“Charlie? No stay?”

She turns back with a bitten lip. “If you want. I kinda figured you wanted your space. You were pretty angry, and ah. It’s been pointed out to me that I’ve been up your ass a lot.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side. “Nothing up—”

“It’s an expression,” she grins.

“Hm. Maybe… stay now, go later?”

She gives an over-exaggerated shrug, trotting back to him and practically jumping into the hammock. Cas has a brief moment of panic that the entire thing is going to collapse, but Dean’s handiwork holds well. “Twist my arm!”

“Castiel not—”

“Another expression,” she says happily.

 

 

Castiel is allowed free-reign of the house, not that he bothers to use it. Relieving himself is done in the bathroom, as is taking showers, but otherwise the star remains a permanent installation out-of-doors when the weather is favourable. Even the glow of his hands is not restricted now, though Charlie cautions him to use it sparingly: “We don’t know what kind of tech they have to try and find you.”

But Castiel doesn’t need his powers when he’s laying outside, trying to communicate with a curious chipmunk, or whistle with the birds, or help a mother rabbit feed her warren.

Yesterday, Castiel spent a whole eight hours trying to mimic the call of a small frog, and today a particularly playful butterfly keeps trying to land on his nose.

Out here, things are simple and safe.

A twigs cracks under someone’s heavy weight and Castiel immediately straightens, blood singing in his veins as it races towards his heart. His skin tingles, and his ears twitch, straining to hear whether the creature is friend or foe. He can feel it: large, warm-blooded… deliberate. Frowning, the star motions for the butterfly to settle down, nodding when it lands on his shoulder for safety. He crawls forward, feet and hands silent against the dirt as his eyes dart across forest, lingering on areas one could potentially hide behind.

It becomes very clear very quickly that whatever is in there is looking at Cas just as surely as he’s looking back. But nothing else happens beyond the looking. It’s like they’re in one of those—those _stand-offs_ in that film Charlie made him watch with her and Dean. He hadn’t been paying attention to the screen as much as the humans watching it, but he remembers there had been tall hats and illness.

 _I’m your huckleberry_.

Biting his lip, the star carefully moves to stand, setting his shoulders as he steps forward once, twice, three times, hand outstretched, threadbare blanket sliding off his shoulders to drop onto the earth. He merely reaches out a hand, steady as he’s been for over one hundred thousand years, and waits.

An animal unlike one he’s ever seen reveals itself.

It looks as if tree branches have sprouted from its head, dangerous and unforgiving and in stark contrast to rest of it: its fur is the colour of Charlie’s morning _latte_ on its torso, the scruff of its neck a rich dark brown, its eyes big and black and kind. Certainly, kind. It has hooves, and strong legs, and its wet nose steams in the morning air.

Cas’s eyes widen when it moves further forward to nuzzle at his palm, snuffling up his arm and at his chest and face. A smile tugs at the star’s mouth, turning into a joyous huff as it chews at the hem of his shirt. “Hello,” Castiel murmurs.

Only after the animal—an elk, he thinks, judging by the size and colouring—is done its inspection does it allow Cas to press his hand to its fur, moving up its back to its neck. His curious fingers are permitted to explore the ups and downs of the fuzzy branches attached to its head. Castiel then watches, befuddled, as the creature lowers its head in what can only be interpreted as a deferral. A bow. It’s strange… he knows this creature respects him just as surely as he knows he’s a male named Ern.

Inclining his head, Cas bows slightly himself. “Hello, Ern.”

 

 

When the little lights on Rufus’s old motion sensors start blinking like crazy, Dean hightails it out of the shower, towel haphazardly wrapped around his waist and shampoo sluggishly sliding out of his hair and onto his face. He almost trips over the carpet in the hallway in his haste to get to the back, grabbing the knife he knows is in the hall closet as he crowds the door with Charlie. “What is it?” Dean demands. “What’s the threat?”

Charlie looks him over with a smirk. “No threat,” she assures him, turning to train her gaze on Cas’s setup. “Look.”

Castiel is outside, petting an elk easily three times his weight.

Dean frowns, hand immediately moving to the doorknob. Elk can be aggressive, and Dean didn’t spend his fucking nights giving a recovering alien secret sponge baths to have him be gutted by a wild animal.

“Wait,” Charlie says, hand moving to stop his. “Dean, _look_.”

The elk fucking _bows_ , and Dean has to rub his eyes to make sure he’s seeing right. No… there it is: Cas inclining his head, too, moving to brush his hand down the animal’s snout as it rises.

“You know,” Charlie says, “I forget he’s not like us, sometimes… but whenever he’s out here, it’s like he belongs, you know? Like, he’s part of the landscape. But not passive, just like—like a forest spirit or something.”

She looks over, then, but Dean doesn’t notice. His face is so close to the glass it’s fogging it up, his hands pressed to the cold surface in a way that makes it look like he’s going to fall through the window. “Yeah,” he breathes, stuck somewhere between fear and awe.

“…Pretty handsome, too, in his natural habitat. I mean, if you ask me.”

Quickly, Dean turns to look at Charlie, who merely raises a brow. His cheeks are pink. “No one’s asking you.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Charlie, seriously—”

“No, you seriously. You think I didn’t notice that you basically didn’t leave his bedside even though he tried to kill you?”

“Yeah, but that was my fault—”

“And then he woke up, and you were totally gung-ho to do the hammock thing, and you stare when he’s not looking, and—”

“I don’t _stare,_ jesus—”

“You totally do, though. Look, it’s cool that you want to be his friend, but it’s also cool if you wanna jump his bones. That’s all I’m saying.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean turns back to Castiel. “Whatever,” he grumbles.

“Hey.”

“ _What_ , Charlie?”

Turning to look at her, Dean feels all the fight leave him; she’s smiling, kind and sweet, and she gives his arm a playful nudge. “I just love you,” she says simply. “Wouldn’t want to be on this crazy adventure with anyone else.”

It always shocks him when she says stuff like that. That after everything she’s been through—losing her parents, being in and out of foster homes until she turned eighteen—that she can still just tell him she loves him, just like that. She didn’t have a Bobby. She never had a forever family, and still…

Dean swallows thickly, nodding and leaning in to press a kiss to her hair. “Love you too, Red.”

“I know.”

 

 

It’s been a hell of a day.

The TV fritz-ed out, and the water heater stopped working because last night’s storm fucked up one of the solar panels on the roof—which were starting to be overgrown with Cas’s dumb plants, so weren’t working too well, anyway. Dean spent the entire day digging through a sub-par, rusty toolbox and trying to do the equivalent of fixing leaking boat with duct tape.

Cas has been outside the whole day—it’s been like that for the last three, actually, ever since Charlie showed him his hammock—but he’s usually asleep by eleven; something about circadian rhythm and not being fucked up by screens or lights or anything. Which is why, when Dean finally finishes eating and taking his shower, he decides it’s probably safe to be outside the cabin in some capacity that doesn’t involve checking the perimeter or doing repairs.

It’s not that he’s actively trying to isolate himself. Seriously. It’s just… all Charlie wants to talk about is Cas, and since getting his setup outside, Cas has been nothing if not a ray of goddamn sunshine. Dean doesn’t really know how to deal with the alien when he’s not trying to glare him six feet under.

But cooping himself up inside the cabin whenever he wants to relax is getting old. It’s a damn small house, so Dean grabs a beer and his pack of stress cigarettes before heading to the front porch.

Where Castiel is sitting, glass of water in hand, chatting with a bunch of fireflies.

Dean doesn’t even know why he’s there; forget being way past his bedtime, this isn’t even his side of the house. But there he is: naked but for Dean’s stupid briefs, turning at the sound of the door, and giving this weird little smile—like he’s trying but doesn’t really know how a smile works, anyway—once he sees it’s Dean.

Dean seriously considers turning tail and heading to the back.

“Hello, Dean.”

Fuck.

“Sorry,” he says, backing away. “I’ll go.”

“Stay. Please?”

_Why?_

It takes everything Dean has not to outright groan at the slightly accented plea, but he pastes on a smile of his own and stuffs the dumb cigs in his pocket, cracks open his beer, and polishes off half of it before he even sits down. “Hey, Cas.” He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and Castiel stares. And stares. And stares.

“…Hey,” the alien replies. More staring.

It’s kind of obvious he wants to have a conversation about _something_ , but the fact that his English is so limited is making that impossible. Granted, it’s probably a conversation about The Incident, so Dean’s fine with Cas’s poor human vocabulary. He takes another swig of beer, tempted to drain the entire thing and escape back into the house… but the alien’s eyes are just as earnest as they are eerily bright in the dark. Dean sighs. “I used to do this a lot with my brother. We’d make our own constellations.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side. He looks like a confused bird, and Dean has to take another swig to keep from laughing. The bird thing isn’t cute. It’s weird. He has to remind himself it’s weird.

“Cons—Constellations?”

Just like he has to remind himself that Cas’s deep, rough voice isn’t hot, and that his accent isn’t sexy.

Dean clears his throat, keeping his gaze carefully trained on the sky and not his companion, who is, surprise, still staring at the side of his face. “Yeah, uh, they’re these pictures people can see in the sky. They’re made of stars, and have different meanings and stuff.” He clears his throat, drowning the awkwardness in more beer. Jesus. It’s not like the guy wants to hear about how humans look at the sky and make pictures of his alien siblings. “Sorry.”

“Hm.” But instead of getting upset, Cas leans out, squinting up like that’ll make him see the images Dean’s talking about. “Where?”

“Uhh.” The human purses his lips, tracing the shape of the easiest, most famous constellation he knows. “That’s the little dipper. See? It looks like a spoon.”

Castiel leans out further, biting his lip. “Don’t see,” he says.

“Just… right there. See it now? There’s the little bowl, and the handle’s right…”

“No.”

“Here.”

 

 

Dean’s hand is warm and rough, the skin tough and unyielding in places. Texture is one of those human things Castiel has never truly become accustomed to, and something that easily manages to monopolize and overwhelm him with feeling. The combination of rough and soft and warm is mesmerizing here, in the dark, alone with Dean. The star watches as the male helps to point him in the right direction, outlining the shape of this ‘little dipper’.

But where he sees some human image, all Castiel can see are his kin.

He sighs—or, at least, he thinks he does—sometimes, this body does things without asking. Yesterday, he walked all the way over to Dean’s room after breakfast and stood by the door before he’d even realized he’d done it. He laughs sometimes now, too, big and unbridled and an extension of the bright feeling that lights up his chest (not dangerous). There’s something akin to that warmth deep in the pit of his stomach, now, though it’s so faint he might be imagining it.

What he does feel, deeply and certainly, is… longing, he thinks, for home; something sad and painful that leaves him wanting an outcome he cannot have. The blackness of this particular emotion has dulled to a dark grey, and for this Castiel has what Charlie calls _mixed feelings_. What is he if he can no longer gaze at his kin without feeling blinding pain? No longer celestial, and most certainly not human, where does he belong? Does he want to belong anywhere?

Humans often feel too much for the confines of their physicality. Confusion, joy, anger, despair… even now, the star blinks rapidly to dispel his tears from a simple but upsetting train of thought. It’s unsustainable. Cruel. How can humans function with a whole universe inside of them?

“Shit. Uh. I’ll get Charlie.”

Dean looks at him like he’s… terrified, eyes wide in the dark and shoulders tensed to flee. Though Cas is improving on his ability to read human expressions and body language, he can’t understand what he’s done to alienate the male. But he does know that he doesn’t want Dean to go. Because… because he’s enjoying his company, and being near him. It’s pleasant, when they’re not angry with one another. Anger is exhausting. Besides, after That Night and the days that followed, things have changed between them. They’re sweeter, somehow.

Aren’t they?

“Wait!” he says, quickly wiping at his face and pasting on what he hopes is a kind-looking smile. From Dean’s frown, he doesn’t succeed. “Please stay. Please? Castiel no—won’t hurt Dean.” He presses a hand to his own heart and to Dean’s in an attempt to communicate just how much he’d like the continued company. “Friends?”

Dean bites his lip before nodding, looking down at his feet. “Okay,” he murmurs, meeting Castiel’s gaze. “Okay, yeah. Friends.”

Cas is almost bowled over by the joy and pleasure he experiences at Dean’s agreement, warmth exploding in his chest to travel up his neck and face and tug at his mouth in a wide, crooked smile. “Friends,” he says under his breath. “Nice.”

Dean grins back.

 

 

Castiel is so tired of scratching at his face. His skin feels red and swollen underneath the wiry, dry hairs sprouting from his cheeks and chin. Cold compresses don’t help with anything but the unnatural heat of it, and he’s half-convinced that someday soon he’ll just scratch his flesh off, hair and all, and be done with it. He’s looking at the fingers of his left hand, contemplating the nails trimmed short courtesy of Charlie, when Dean clears his throat from behind him.

Cas pauses mid-scratch. “Dean?”

“I, uh, can help you get rid of that.” He looks nervous; shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hands stuffed in his pockets, bare toes pressing hard into the dirt. He’s looking at Castiel expectantly, one hand coming up to motion to his own cheek. “It’ll be different than last time. Promise.”

Last time. Last time, he had been terrified by Charlie’s wielding of the sharp blade she’d been trying to use on his face. But Dean isn’t Charlie, and things are different now, anyway. Taking a deep breath, the star pushes aside his fear and gives one quick, stiff nod. He can trust these humans. He can. And he can trust Dean. This is a nice gesture. “Yes.”

“Cool.” A small, nice little smile tugs at the corner of Dean’s mouth. He stands there for a long moment, staring for so long that Cas has to turn to ensure he is the one being looked at. He is.

“…Dean?”

“Yeah?” Freckled cheeks now dusted with pink, the male rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, just got… yeah. You ready? We’ll use the bathroom.”

Shrugging, Castiel climbs out of his hammock and starts making his way inside, hand brushing along Dean’s arm like Charlie does to him. The male trips over his own feet with a yelp, righting himself and primly straightening his t-shirt. “Uh, let’s just—yup. Okay.”

Watching Dean stride past, Castiel tilts his head to the side in utter confusion.

Humans are so odd.

The bathroom hasn’t gotten any larger since he was in there last, which means that he and Dean need to crowd together in front of the sink. There is a brand new weapon—a _razor_ , as Dean calls it, sitting in the ceramic basin that has since been filled with hot water. A small towel rests on Castiel’s lap as he sits on the sheet-covered floor. On his knees in front of him, Dean _plugs_ something into the wall. It makes a loud buzzing noise.

“So,” the male says. “First thing we do is trim your beard. These are clippers and _these_ ,” he pulls out a silver contraption from the cupboard, “are scissors. First we use the scissors, then the clippers. Cool?”

“Cool,” Cas says, quick. When Dean settles again, moving forward to do… whatever he’s going to do with the _scissors_ , the star squeezes his eyes shut, tensed to shaking.

The pain never comes.

“Cas.”

Castiel opens one eye only. His nose is scrunched and his hands are fisted in his shirt. The male gives an encouraging smile. “You gotta relax, man. It’s not painful.”

“But… maybe yes.”

Rough hands move to gently cup Cas’s face, causing blue eyes to flutter open. “Trust me, okay? Been doing this for like half my life. You’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” the star mutters. “Okay. Fine. Fine.”

There’s a _snick_ that has him tensing all over again, and then Dean is clearing his throat, smugly holding up more pieces of dark, wiry fair between his fingers.

That… didn’t hurt.

“You good?” Dean asks, expectantly. At Castiel’s nod, the male comes forward with the scissors again. They’re close like before, maybe even more so now that Dean is working. With gentle hands, he tilts the star’s face this way and that, trimming methodically.

It’s soothing. The buzzing feels odd so close to his skin, but the male makes quick work of it. Soon, he’s thumbing the line of Castiel’s jaw with a low, “Cas.”

When blue eyes open, the star finds Dean much closer than he thought he’d be.

He wears a smile Castiel has never seen before, an expression that is… soft, somehow. “Almost forgot you had a face,” he teases.

Cas feels himself smile back.

“We should probably cut your hair, too. It’s getting a little long.” As if to make his point, Dean tugs on one of the many strands in front of Castiel’s eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Oddly enough, Cas has a sinking feeling that if Dean asked for his right arm, he’d have given it to him. It’s a terrifying thought, but one he doesn’t truly register. Dean’s mere presence seems to be a balm to Castiel’s anxieties; his closeness and gentle demeanour something that makes him feel… safe. So Cas allows the male to use to scissors and cut his hair, listening to his chatter about how he “used to do this for Sammy” when they were “on the road”. The feeling of Dean’s fingers in his hair is different than Charlie’s.

“Looks like the Head & Shoulders isn’t working,” the male mumbles to himself among the near-constant _snick snick_. “Maybe I’ll ask Sammy what kinda natural shampoo he uses. That other stuff’s gotta have chemicals that’re irritating your skin. Hm.” He runs hands through Castiel’s hair from the top of his head down to the base of his skull, and Cas gives a low hum of pleasure. Sighing, the star presses into the touch. This is _wonderful_.

With every new motion of Dean’s hands, Castiel feels his shoulders droop, body practically melting at the touch until his forehead is pressed to the human’s shoulder.

“Like a damn cat,” Dean says. His voice sounds warm.

Castiel doesn’t know what about his behaviour makes him feline, but he doesn’t really care as long as Dean doesn’t stop in his ministrations. It feels… calm, being this close to him. Like contentment? Dean’s t-shirt is soft and worn, the warmth of his body bleeding through the thin material to warm Cas’s forehead. He smells nice, too. Different than Charlie—less like tropical fruits and more like outside: pine trees, sap and the subtle aroma of wildflowers.

Castiel breathes deep, matching the steady up-and-down of Dean’s chest as he closes his eyes. He could stay here forever.

Until his back starts to itch.

When Cas moves his shoulders in an attempt to get his t-shirt to scratch the itch for him, it only makes things worse, jostling him and Dean both so that the male pulls away. “Ah, shit. You should take your shirt off.” He pauses then, red beginning to bloom in his cheeks as he turns, getting up to busy himself with testing the temperature of the water in the sink. “Just throw it on the sheet and we’ll wash it all later.”

Castiel frowns in confusion, but does as he’s bid, watching cautiously as Dean approaches him as indelicately and coldly as if he were inanimate. He doesn’t even look at him as he takes the discarded piece of clothing and wipes Cas’s back and front perfuctorily. The room feels as if it’s dropped by 1.83 degrees despite the fact that he temperature has not changed, which is disconcerting in and of itself, but made even more so by Dean’s suddenly conservative body language. The star isn’t certain what he could have possibly done wrong in the past five minutes, but it must have been something dire to have Dean acting so cold towards him.

“Here, uh, just hold this up to your face.” The male gives Castiel a hot towel, palms cupping the backs of his hands as he guides the star to press the thing to his face. It’s hot, but not so hot that it burns. “We put the wet towel so the hair lifts off your face and it’s easier to get a close shave. Water has to be hot. Prob’ly be good for your skin, too… even with the trimmers I can see you have a rash.”

Cas hums like he understands everything Dean just said and why it matters, and watches warily as he produces two razors. His back continues to itch.

Human appendages tend to be unwieldy and restrictive in their range of motion, but the star manages to hold the towel in the crook of his right arm and use the other in an attempt to get at the place on his shoulder blade. He only just misses it, squirming in an attempt to reach even a part of—

“Um. I can do that.”

Dean is trembling so finely Castiel wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t looking closely. But he is, and the human is sitting cross-legged beside him, their legs touching, as he reaches over to scratch the offending area. “There?”

Castiel’s _yes_ comes out on a sigh.

The distance Dean seems to be attempting to maintain crumbles as his fingers move from one shoulder blade to another and then to Cas’s lower back. The star shivers at the contact, and what Charlie calls _goosebumps_ begin to rise on his arms. “I can write everything down for you, too, so you can remember how to do it. You don’t have to do the towel every time, but it’s nice.”

Dean’s voice is quiet and nervous; hesitant, in a way Cas doesn’t understand. Castiel closes his eyes, leans into Dean’s touch in a particularly itchy place. “Can’t read,” he mumbles. His voice muffled by the towel. “A little bit. But not… good. Yet.”

“Oh. Well… that’s okay. I could always, uh, help you again, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean echoes. “How’s your—your back? Still itchy?”

“No,” Cas says happily, pushing into Dean’s fingers when he stops. “But please.”

“You like back scratches, huh?”

“ _Very_ much so. Good feelings.”

Dean smiles with the corner of his mouth. His shoulders fall slightly away from his ears. “We can do it for a little bit longer, but we gotta stop when the towel’s done.”

When they remove the towel, Dean turns his head this way and that, frowning at the splotches of red he says are on Cas’s cheeks. “We’ll just have to be careful,” he mutters. “Okay. Teach a man to fish, right? You’re gonna hold the razor like this…”

Shaving isn’t terribly complicated. Foam is required into order to remove the most hair possible without harming oneself, but despite the fact that this foam looks like whipped cream, it is most definitely not edible. Castiel now knows this from personal experience.

“Good. That’s awesome, Cas.”

Castiel also knows that shaving can be dangerous. Dean first demonstrated on himself, and so it’s on his own cheek that a bead of red forms. The human flinches, cursing but not seemingly distressed beyond that of a minor inconvenience.

That being said, Castiel’s vision narrows to a point.

Tears spring to his eyes as he scrambles to reach for Dean’s face, ignoring the male’s protests as his heartbeat pounds in his ears and his breath quickens and he presses two fingers to the bleeding area and squeezes his eyes shut. He will not allow Dean to die, not again—

“Woah, Cas!”

There is a weight on Castiel’s hips, and further investigation reveals Dean’s hands resting there _._ He’s practically sitting in Dean’s lap, right hand holding the male’s head in place while his other fingers press against the unblemished skin of his cheek.

 _What just_ —

Frowning, Castiel rubs at his eyes and quickly turns away. He hates crying.

“Cas?”

What just happened? His heart is still racing and Castiel places a hand to his own chest, confused. He had been thoroughly convinced Dean was in mortal danger.

“I’m okay,” Dean says.

Castiel wraps his arms around himself. What _was_ that?

To his credit, Dean doesn’t touch him—just crawls in front of him and tries to catch his eye. He’s smiling when he does it. “You can’t keep beating yourself up, man, not about me. You’re gonna drive yourself crazy.” Castiel takes a deep, shaking inhale. “You brought me back,” Dean says. “Remember? I’m here because of you.” A wide grin. “Thanks for healing me up, though. That’s pretty handy.”

Disconcertingly, Castiel has an intense and indescribable desire to be physically comforted: to be held, and to specifically be held by Dean. This desire is only exaggerated by the male’s tracing along his jaw, murmuring: “Did a real good job. You look…”

The star leans forward in an attempt to obtain any kind of meaningful physical contact between them. But the moment he’s close—noses an inch apart, hands moved to anchor at Dean’s shoulders—the male immediately tenses.

He pulls back, stiffly, that very same distance from before rising up between them like a wall. “I, uh. I gotta go. I’ll. I’ll get Charlie for you.”

He’s out of the room almost before Castiel can blink. And yes, Charlie does enter the bathroom, and yes, she most definitely holds him when he communicates what he wants… but for some reason, it’s not the same. He doesn’t understand Dean: friendly one minute and cold the next, his behaviour is beyond complex and confusing. It’s laughable to think Castiel ever thought him simple.

 

 

“ _For more than 200 years, we Owens women have been blamed by everything that's ever gone wrong in this town_...”

Cas makes it thirty seconds into the film _Practical Magic_ —“it’s a masterpiece, seriously”—before he can’t breathe. Sound is dull in his ears and he can’t move his eyes from the pale-skinned woman on-screen, dressed in a flowing plain white garment, getting ready to be hanged. A _witch_.

A witch.

Castiel knows it didn’t happen like that for his sister. He knows she was burned until all but her heart was unrecognizable. That she screamed and begged instead of hopping off the platform and glaring at the townspeople. Castiel wishes it had happened like in _Practical Magic_.

He can’t do this.

It’s easy to untangle himself from Charlie, to push up off the couch and stumble to the nearest door. To cough and choke on the air outside and sit, out of sight from the house, behind an oak tree. Knees pressed up to his chest, he allows his head to fall against them and pushes his palms into the dirt, letting gold flowers weave between his fingers. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, trying to get a handle on his breath, before Dean sits beside him.

“What happened to you?”

Castiel understands the first word and from there can easily piece together the rest of Dean’s question, frowning as he thinks of how to even attempt beginning to explain. He tries with hand motions first; pointing to himself and then the sky, holding his first and second fingers up to denote ‘two’, but quickly becomes frustrated when Dean doesn’t understand. How did his kin connect with humans previously? Frowning at his human hands, Cas is suddenly struck with it.

His hands.

Motioning Dean forward, Castiel scoots forward, holding up the first two fingers of his right hand to the human’s temple. Dean appears to be nervous, and Castiel doesn’t know how to tell him that there is only a very small probability of error, here: he’s quite certain he remembers Balthazar doing this with some famous Egyptian monarch he’d wanted to engage in coitus with. Cleo something-or-other. Or was it the male that began with a ‘T’? There had been so many.

Closing his eyes, the star takes a deep breath, allowing the memory to gather at his fingertips: they way he’d felt steady and strong and righteous in orbit; the way he and Hannah had belonged to a binary star system—the two of them, twins, orbiting around each other for eternity; the way she had been bright and wonderful. The way she’d Fallen.

She’d been pulled from orbit by the death of one of their other siblings, stuffed into a vessel as she streaked towards Earth. For a moment, Castiel had been convinced he’d follow her—their perfect balance disrupted, he too fell through space… but his fate was a smaller orbit, and faster, around one of the brightest stars in their system. Not that Castiel particularly cared what was happening to him as his twin sister began hurtling towards her demise.

Humanity had always been violent and cruel and curious, and now Hannah, his _twin_ , was thrust into the melee. No other of his kind had ever survived to meet a quiet, natural end, here. Not Balthazar, who was eventually skinned and made into text, his heart consumed by those who sought to become as powerful. Not Inias, who was murdered by Romans claiming him a demon. Rachel had been killed for her youth and beauty, her body consumed by a queen who sought to live forever. And Hannah? Hannah learnt that to survive was to disappear. She tried to hide herself in dirty rags and remote cottages, and was abducted, tortured, and then accused of witchcraft and burned at the stake four months after crashing to Earth.

Castiel did not dare look upon the planet again.

He remembers everything; his kind do not have eyes the way humans do, but they can see. They can watch. Castiel watched his sister burn alive and heard her pride stifle her screams. He’d been helpless, and useless, and he _felt_ the exact moment her presence left the known Universe. It opened up a yawning blackness at his center that threatened to destroy anything and everything in an immediate vicinity. The others would have understood if he had—stars became black holes for less.

But he didn’t turn. He remained. Hatefully. And when Anna—his new sister, just as bright but not nearly as steady—used herself up, when she collapsed into herself and imploded for all her uncontrollable power, Castiel was devastated to find he hadn’t been ended in the blast, but thrown towards Earth.

He’d landed in a white hot burst of searing, impossible pain, and then been shoved into a _car_. He’d wanted to die—would still like to, he thinks, because the pain of living on this planet when his sister died here, at the hands of the cruel, sadistic, awful monsters that haunt this rock, is unbearable. Humans are all the same. They may show you sweetness, feed you, clothe you, _love you_ , but this is a front for the evil desires that lurk beneath their skin. Their curiosity is poison. They are anathema to everything good. Bringers of death, plague, hate… that is their legacy.

Castiel can feel his stomach contract, his chest tightening as he struggles for breath and tears spring to his eyes. He is alone, here, just as Hannah was, but he was never as strong as she was. He misses her. He would die at the hands of these pigs ten times over to save her just the once—he’d be burned at the stake for one million Earth turns in order to spare her. He wishes—

“C-Cas!”

His name is choked, forced from Dean’s lips in a quick, desperate bid that has Castiel opening his eyes.

Dean is in pain.

He is tensed to oblivion, looking as if a stiff wind could break him in half. His hands shake and his face is bright read, brows furrowed and eyes shining with shed and unshed tears. Snot drips down his face and drool drips from his chin… and where Castiel fingers press to his temples, blue light is blinding.

He immediately removes his hand and watches, shocked, when Dean crumples to the ground. He twitches a few times, the green of his eyes almost swallowed completely by his pupil before lying motionless. Cas’s heart is in his throat. His hands fly over the male’s chest, checking for a heartbeat or a pulse and shaking him; “Dean? Dean?! No nonononono…” He can’t breathe again, his vision tunnelling to Dean’s prone figure and his hands are turning red and it’s that night all over again, he’s _killed Dean_ all over again.

“Ugh.”

Dean groans, eyes fluttering into awareness as he turns over onto his side, curling into himself in an attempt to get away from all the shaking. Castiel’s hands immediately still.

“Fuckin—ow. _Ow._ ”

Cas’s relief is palpable. The star lets out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding, hand trembling as he clumsily pets across Dean’s chest and through his hair. The action jostles him, another round of _ow_ and _hurts_ tumbling from the male’s lips. Castiel ceases in his movements. “Sorry,” he murmurs, leaning down instead to press his forehead to Dean’s chest—just to be sure, just to feel his heartbeat. “Sorry.”

Dean is steady for about five long breaths before they start to become shaky, his chest jumping every so often in way that has Castiel looking up and blue eyes turning wide.

He’s crying.

“Oh no,” the start breathes, quickly moving to wipe at his tears. “No no. Dean. Sorry, Dean. _Sorry_.” His hands are clumsily and unpracticed here, unaware of the proper etiquette as he wipes the drool from Dean’s chin and the snot from his upper lip with his bare hand. He swipes at tear-stained cheeks. “Y-You’re okay,” he mutters. “Okay. Dean. You’re okay.”

And then something strange happens:

Dean shakes his head, grabs Castiel’s hand in mid-air and says, “ _Cas_.”

Castiel freezes.

The star stays perfectly still as Dean grunts and pushes himself up on one elbow, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. He looks so earnest, so incredibly upset that Cas feels tears spring to his own eyes. For some reason, he can’t seem to look away.

Their foreheads fall together, Dean swallowing a strangled yelp at the contact. His breath comes sharp and laboured. “ _M’sorry, Cas_ ,” he croaks miserably.

Castiel knows exactly what he’s apologizing for.

The idea that some unimportant human—someone who never knew his siblings, or his family, or had anything to do with any of his own suffering would _apologize_ to him on behalf of his entire species… Cas squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to control the wetness building there. The words do nothing, of course; there’s no bringing back his sister, or his brothers, or anyone, but the mere fact that Dean is also overcome by Castiel’s pain is overwhelming. Like Charlie, he has deep wells of complicated emotion: empathy, sympathy, sorrow…  

Reaching forward, the star rests his free hand on the back of Dean’s neck to ground himself, biting his lip to keep from outright sobbing. No one, not even his remaining kin, has ever apologized for this before. No one has ever even acknowledged the fact that it was painful. Above, Castiel had been certain he’d been the only one to truly feel the loss of his siblings, but here—here, someone who was born centuries past their deaths grieves with him.

It feels… good.

  
  


 

 

**DAY ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE**

_“Earth is the cradle of humanity, but one cannot live in a cradle forever.”_

                                                  ― Konstantin Tsiolkovsky

 

They watch a movie every night.

It’s part of what Charlie calls _family time_ and Dean gruffly refers to as _pop culture education_ , but both those terms seem to ultimately mean the same thing: either way, Dean seats himself on the lumpy chair to the right of the television, and Charlie and Castiel take the couch. Sometimes, they eat snacks, though anything but fruit tends to make the star’s stomach hurt when he eats too much.

They’re watching something—a television show, Castiel reminds himself—when the two people on screen, laying down in bed together much like he and Charlie sometimes do, begin kissing. At least, he’s reasonably certain they’re kissing. This close, it looks like they might be eating each other. Frowning, the star takes a hard look at he and Charlie’s placement together, noting their tangled limbs and held hands. They’re touching everywhere, and yet… they’re not kissing. Does the way they’re placed denote that they’re romantically involved? She’s never kissed him. He doesn’t want her to kiss him. Despite this, are they in a relationship? But Charlie touches Dean in much the same way… are they romantically involved as well?

Lost in thought, his gaze drifts to Dean. Dean, who is folded up in his chair, eyes glued to the screen, clad in worn sleepwear. He looks comfortable, and Castiel briefly wonders what it would be like to cuddle with him. To be pressed together practically head-to-toe, skin against bare skin. Past experience with being close to him suggest that cuddling would be very nice. Biting his lip, the star frowns at the slightly elevated beat of his heart. He feels… hot with the image of he and Dean tangled together seared into his mind as he looks, unseeing at the screen. Dean would hold him firmly, he knows from experience—but he wouldn’t hurt him. He’d be gentle, and kind, because at his core that is who he truly is. He’d run fingers through his hair, and massage that place at the base of his skull, and maybe lean forward and… and kiss him. That might be nice. Kissing. A little bit. Not like the couple on TV.

Exhaling a shaky breath, the star shivers, frowning at the hot, uncomfortably tight feeling between his legs. He shifts his hips in an attempt to alleviate some of it, which only serves to irritate him further.

“You okay?” Charlie whispers.

She’s looking at him and Castiel nods, keeping quiet about his predicament. The last time he asked questions during a movie, both Dean and Charlie told him not to do so unless something was seriously wrong. He’s reasonably certain his condition isn’t life-threatening. “Fine,” he whispers.

“’Kay.”

Frowning at his groin, the star carefully moves a hand to clinically touch between his legs. _Oh_.

Arousal.

What he’s feeling is arousal. For… Dean?

Strange.

And a nuisance.

No matter how hard he tries, Castiel cannot concentrate on the film. He squirms, and grunts, and squeezes his legs shut in some kind of attempt to deflate, but no matter how hard he tries, blue eyes always drift back towards Dean. It gets to be so bad that both humans begin to pointedly look at him.

Not wanting to bother them further, Cas excuses himself to the bathroom, where he kicks off his pants, sits on the toilet, and glares at what’s between his legs… until his curiosity gets to be too much. Frowning at the appendage, the star extends a finger to poke himself. Hard—and soft. Very textually interesting. Quite sensitive, too.

Carefully wrapping a hand around himself, the star feels a low grown tumble from his lips. _Good_. That feels _good_.

Cas’s breath hitches, the context so foreign for this particular physical response that he’s taken aback. He allows himself a moment to recover before replicating the action, first in the exact same movement down to the angle of his wrist, and then with slight changes. It’s a worthy experiment, he thinks faintly, biting out a groan as he discovers that pushing his penis through the circle of his fingers is pleasurable, if slightly raw due to the dryness of his skin.

Lubrication might be good.

Wary to use any of the bathroom products—they continue to smell unnatural and cause his skin to dry out or his eyes to sting—the star gives his palm a sloppy lick and resumes his impromptu exploration. Too hard is unpleasant but too soft leaves him wanting, twisting his wrist is fantastic but is hard to maintain. It seems like in the wake of this physical pleasure, Cas has a difficult time doing anything but submitting to it, wholly and completely. The more he touches, the harder it is to think and categorize, and deliberately try. There comes a point when instinct takes over.

Unfortunately, this is also the moment Charlie enters the bathroom.

“OH MY GOD!” She’s gone half a second later, though Castiel can’t understand why. Some hazy part of his mind thinks it most likely has to do with contemporary ideas of human privacy and prudishness, but the laws of propriety are miles away from the delicious shiver that seems to be starting at the base of his spine, the thing climbing up and up and up and—

“Oh, Jesus Christ!”

Dean.

Dean… stays.

He’s flushed from his cheeks down to his chest, colour rising towards his hairline as he stares, caught someone between shock and—something else. Castiel doesn’t have the mental fortitude to guess, at the moment. He does notice the shape of the male’s mouth, however, and the way his hands fidget, and the bow of his legs and the way he sounds when he says: “Cas.”

It’s breathy.

Something about that in particular causes something to tighten in inside him, and Cas barely has the presence of mind to keep stroking himself as his pleasure builds tenfold. There’s something, too, about being watched. About—“Ohh… Mm.”

The sounds seem to propel Dean back to the present.

His face goes from pink to bright red, stepping back and covering his ears as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Jesus Christ, Castiel, what did we say about closing the goddamn door!”

Close the door? Now? Cas is reasonably certain he’d collapse if he tried to stand. A whine leaves his lips and he manages to twist his wrist, eyes locked on Dean’s figure in the doorway. The male is still yelling; something about privacy and decency and a whole slew of other human words that get lost in rapidly building wave of pleasure that threatens to drown him.

It’s frightening, actually, to feel so out-of-control and wonderful, all at the same time.

“Ah ah _AH_!”

Cas’s vision whites out as warmth spurts from his penis to land on his stomach and up his torso, hitting his bare nipple. It’s a vaguely disgusting texture, and he immediately lets go of his genitals, slumped and exhausted but… satisfied. When he finally looks up, Dean is still in the doorway, staring.

They make eye-contact, and Dean runs as if he’s being chased.

It falls to Charlie to re-explain that masturbation is a private human activity. Dean never mentions it.

 

 

Dean doesn't think about it. He doesn't. Mostly because it feels weird to get hard to the thought of some weird, dorky little guy jerking off for (probably) the first time, but also because said guy is a goddamn alien.

An _alien_.

Is Cas attractive? Yeah, he is. Fine. Whatever.

But Dean doesn’t actually want to ride that beautiful cock of his. For one thing, he isn’t sure Cas is clean—or if his seemingly human-looking alien dick would give him a fun, never before discovered STD. For another, they’re not even technically the same species. Dean knows his tastes tend to run a little wild in bed, but he isn’t that kinky. Besides, Cas is his friend. Does he really want to jeopardize their (hard-earned) friendship over something as trivial as sex?

The image of the star, body bowed in pleasure and surprise at his orgasm, flashes across the backs of Dean’s eyelids again. His heart skips a beat. His dick jumps. He sighs.

Fuck.

 

 

“Try, okay? It’s good, I promise.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, gingerly taking the glass of clear liquid and sniffing. His head immediately snaps back, eyes burning. “No.”

“No? This is a traditional human past time. You gotta at least try.”

“No.”

“Cas, this is a rite of passage.”

“No. Peer pressure.”

“…Peer pressure.”

“Yes.”

With an incredulous look, Dean turns to Charlie: “You taught him _peer pressure_?” When she shrugs, he drags a hand down his face. “This isn’t peer pressure, okay? This is education. Drink. Just a little.” He motions with his thumb and forefinger very close together, as if to demonstrate how little he must actually consume. Castiel rolls his eyes. He’s seen this drink, and others like it. Humans may enjoy lightly poisoning themselves for pleasure, but Castiel will stay sharp, thank you very much.

“Cas, nothing’ll happen from just taking a sip.”

Betrayed by Charlie, now.

“Alcohol is kind of quintessential to the human experience,” she continues, wheedling. “We’ve been drinking on the regular since we wore togas, and informally, even before that. We’re asking you to participate in an ancient tradition.”

Blue eyes narrow.

“Plus, you have two bona fide humans right here to guide you through it! We won’t let anything happen to you, promise.”

“Exactly,” Dean adds. “You trust us, right?”

The air in the room suddenly turns very heavy, both humans staring at Castiel expectantly as he considers this. Does he trust Dean and Charlie?

In an act that is most definitely composed of three parts stupidity and one part recklessness, the star grasps the tiny glass and drinks its contents.

In hindsight, Cas acknowledges that expecting it to taste sweet, or sour, or even bitter is ridiculous in the face of its utterly awful smell. He knows it’s even more idiotic to expect the liquid to taste like water.

It _does not_ taste like water.

The alcohol burns down his throat, and Cas is left coughing as it warms his stomach from the inside out. It’s an odd feeling, but not entirely unpleasant. He stares at Dean in particular, expectantly. “Now what?”

“Well, uh, how d’you feel?”

Castiel takes stock. Besides the rapidly fading warmth in his stomach, he feels totally and completely fine. When he communicates this, Charlie narrows her eyes, considering, before pouring him another glass of the vile liquid.

“No.”

“One more,” Dean pleads. “C’mon. You don’t gotta get smashed, but you should feel _something_.”

“How do you know feelings no come later?”

“ _Won’t_ come later—and because I know; guy your size, with your build, _plus_ the healing abilities? One shot ain’t gonna do it. One more. Please?”

The _shot_ is poured and Castiel ‘downs it’ with as much enthusiasm as the first, blue eyes narrowing at Charlie, now, as she refills his glass. “Why?” he asks.

“At this point?” she says, pouring herself some alcohol and downing it in one shot, face wrinkling in disgust. “I kinda wanna see how high your tolerance is.”

“No, you want I be drunk.”

“Yeah,” Dean pipes in, taking a shot, himself. “For _science_.”

Charlie nods. “Don’t you want to know what your tolerance is compared to that of the average human male?”

Castiel watches, hesitant, as all three glasses are refilled, the two humans holding theirs up expectantly. The star, of his part, bites his lip.

“Drinking is also a social activity,” Charlie says kindly. “It’s not always to get, y’know, fucked up, but in this case your tolerance is an added bonus… so we might get drunk. A little drunk. We won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Taking a deep breath, Castiel eyes the alcohol in its tiny glass, and the humans who have sworn to protect him. He lifts his glass as well. This feels like a bad idea.

Cas drinks thirty-seven _shots_ before a hazy, dulled kind of awareness settles slowly over him.

  


 

It’s a tight fit with all three of them in the hammock, but it holds. On Cas’s other side, Charlie has _passed out_ , because according to Dean: “vodka makes her sleepy”… which leaves he and the male pressed up against each other.

Castiel does not mind this in the least.

The world is soft at its edges. Everything is funny and Cas isn’t sure how loud he’s speaking and things are _good_ , here. Very good. They’re all together but he and Dean are _especially together_ and that is _wonderful_ because Dean has a _wonderful_ face and is a _wonderful_ man.

Who also has wonderful hands.

Dean’s is slightly smaller than his own, his fingers less slender, his skin less soft. Callouses dot his palms. Cas knows this because he has one of Dean’s hands between his—for observational purposes, probably. He thinks. It’s hard to be absolutely certain.

Either way, Cas likes touching Dean.

He likes his different textures, and the warmth, and… well, everything about it, really. How gentle he is, and kind. It’s heady to have this knowledge of how rich and complex an individual he is after thinking him so one-dimensional and angry.

Dean’s hand is very close now, owing to the fact that Cas seems to be petting it like a small, domesticated animal. Or, he was doing that, until— _Ow!_ —the human flicks his nose. “Dumbass,” he says fondly.

Glaring in the face of Dean’s pleasure, Castiel shoves him playfully. In time with the violent jostling of the hammock, Cas’s heart seems to tumble against his ribcage. He frowns at the strange physical reaction but has no time to investigate further. With an over-dramatic groan, the human flops down atop Castiel’s body with an _oof_!

“I’m trying to _sleep_ , assholes.”

At the sound of Charlie’s voice, Dean rolls back into place, somehow closer to Cas than he was before. When Castiel opens his mouth to half-heartedly protest the further invasion of his space, Dean fits his palm easily over the star’s mouth. “Shut up, Cas,” the human whispers, loud and slurred in his ear. “She’s tryin’ to—”

Cas shakes Dean’s hand off. “Dean, shhhhhh!”

“Oh my _god_ , would you two put a cork in it!”

Dean shuffles even nearer, the tips of their noses touching as he whispers something Castiel is too distracted to hear. They are so _close_. Cas can only barely make out his individual features in the dark, hand moving up to map him by touch and texture rather then rely on his poor human night vision.

Dean’s cheeks are rough from shaving, and his jaw is sharp, and his mouth is soft. Their foreheads are pressed against one another's, and every so often Dean rubs their noses together, something that, in theory, should not be as incredibly thrilling as it is. Cas likes touch, he thinks, dragging his thumb along the male’s plush bottom lip. And it’s much easier to manage with alcohol.

“I should go back in,” Dean murmurs.

“No, stay. Please.” The words are out before he truly understands why he’s said them; the strings of his heart lurching to move his mouth.

Dean smiles, shaking his head. “Nah, you’ve got your hands full with Charlie.” He gracelessly rolls out of the hammock, pausing when Cas’s hand shoots out without the star’s permission. Their fingers tangle together and he tugs Dean back. At the very least, the male cannot go without what Charlie assures him is the customary way to say goodnight. He leans up and causes the entire hammock to list heavily to the right. In his drunken state, the star barely manages to tug Dean down and press a sloppy kiss to his cheek. Like friends do.

It’s funny, that he can feel the beginnings of Dean’s smile against his mouth. “’Night,” the male says upon pulling away, stumbling backwards towards the house with a goofy wave.

Castiel watches Dean’s dark shape enter the cabin with a sigh. “Night,” he echoes, using his right leg to gently rock his hammock. “Sweet dreams.”

Something strangely heavy with disappointment sinks to the bottom of his stomach.

This feeling only intensifies when Dean seems to disappear for the next seven days. In need of a distraction, Cas spends a lot of time walking in the forest, reacquainting himself with its flora and fauna, and with Ern in particular. He also discovers he enjoys climbing trees, sitting in the highest boughs with a breeze against his face. He thinks a lot. About how he’s feeling, about Dean and his behaviour and Charlie and hers; about how frustratingly opaque it all is. Dean’s body language the morning after they imbibed had been… reserved. And he’d been stilted ever since.

Cas wracking his brain for what he possibly could have done to push the male away as he climbs down one evening, covered in rapidly healing surface scratches and with twigs in his hair. He heads back to the house for a glass of water before bed.

When Castiel turns the corner into the kitchen, he’s met with the sight of Dean humming tunelessly in front of the washbasin, methodically cleaning up from mealtime. He swings his hips and makes small movements with his face and arms, bobbing his head to the odd sound waves bouncing across the kitchen.

“What is that?”

Castiel watches as Dean whirls around, hitting his knee with a hiss on a pulled-out kitchen chair. His cheeks are bright red.

“Jesus, Cas. Wear a bell.”

“A… bell?”

“What, they don’t have dancing on the planet Vulcan?” He is red up to the tips of his ears.

Dancing? Vulcan? “Dean—”

“Yeah, yeah ‘don’t understand’. Go clean up and I’ll explain it.” Dean has this annoying habit of muttering and murmuring and speaking quickly, but Castiel manages to catch the words _explain_ and _clean_ and can extrapolate from there. Not that he _likes_ it, but he semi-obediently pads into the bathroom and rubs water on his face, pulling out a particularly large twig and pulling off his sweats.

“You hungry?” the human asks from the kitchen.

“No,” Cas calls back. He walks out to find Dean is leaning against the counter, face bright red, head in his hands. He’s muttering to himself. When it becomes clear he’s not going move from this position, Castiel delicately clears his throat.

Dean’s head snaps up. His skin turns impossibly redder, eyes wide before they narrow. “Where’re your pants?”

Castiel shrugs.

Dean rolls his eyes. Squaring his shoulders, he takes purposeful steps forward. It takes a couple of moments of flailing limbs before Cas’s right hand rests on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s left is around his waist, the other two clasped. “Here we go,” the human mumbles.

It’s… pointless.

They move in relative time with the twangy, harmonious sound waves echoing in the room. It’s slightly confusing to have other sounds dictate their joint movements, but nice, regardless. And warm, somehow—beyond the physical heat of Dean’s body.

As the seconds turn to minutes, and the sound waves change to something faster, Dean only seems to relax. This does something to the room as a whole; opens it up and makes it smaller all at once, until it’s just the two of them on the whole entire planet.

Not really, of course, but… that’s what it feels like.

“What is it?” Castiel asks again. He is instinctually quiet, oddly loathe to vocalize at his normal 60 decibels. It’s ridiculous—he’s only standing closer to Dean than he was before. There is truly nothing different about this part of the room versus where he’d been standing previously, but anything more than a whisper feels wrong, almost.

Dean gives a small smile. “Dancing.” His voice is just as hushed, which leads Castiel to believe that… that he and Dean are _so close_ , speaking loudly could harm their eardrums.

That must be it.

The irregularities don’t stop. Castiel’s hands are becoming damp with sweat, and his skin feels tingly despite the fact that it’s not cold, and his heart is beating so fast he has to stop for a moment, unable to look away from the green of Dean’s eyes even when the human asks if he’s alright. Other than these biological and behavioural anomalies, he’s fine. Nothing has harmed him, and his body is functioning efficiently.... but when Castiel open his mouth to say this, only a soft _yes_ passes his lips. Dean’s answering smile is soft and sweet.

Castiel has seen him wear this expression before, but not this close. Not in this context. And, as he is becoming well aware, context is often very important to humans.

The sound waves twang high and low, and while Castiel cannot understand the words, he knows, somehow, that it is… contradictory. Happy and sad, all at once. It causes a similar emotional contradiction in his own person—to feel residual emotion from a collection of sound waves that seem to entangle with the lightness he feels is curious and strange. In truth, if Castiel thinks about it more deeply, what he feels is associated with symptoms of illness: shortness of breath, breaking out into a sweat, an itchiness in his skin… irregular heartbeat. There is a dip in the music and Dean pulls him closer, the line of their bodies pressed together from toe to chest as they spin. Castiel breathes out a delighted vocalization at the unexpected movement, mouth tugging up as his hands tighten on Dean’s palm and shoulder.

“Okay?” Dean smiles, his voice still quiet.

“Yes,” Castiel says. He leans back roughly ten degrees to better see Dean’s face, blue eyes cataloguing every single one of his odd human features. Unlike some of his kin who were deeply impressed with the human body, Castiel has never found the species attractive. Their eyes are too close together, and they lightly poison themselves for fun. In his humble opinion, they have too many appendages and are too physically vulnerable to be good mates. Balthazar used to be very fond of their obsession with procreation, but Castiel personally found it boring and pointless—the same movements every time, and often, humans don’t even have sex to advance their species. The way they feel the need to treat their kin differently based upon gender and flesh colour is yet another reason he despises them. No, Castiel has never been fond of human culture, custom, or physicality. But… but looking at Dean, he can, perhaps, see the appeal.

Dean’s eyes are _green_ . Green like vegetation, yes, but also like the Earth’s Aurora Borealis, or the ring of the Wreath Nebula. He has deposits of melanin all over his skin, little things that seem to mostly be concentrated at his elbows and shoulders and knees and the bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks. His mouth is soft-looking, yes, which is not useful for any kind of biological defense, but still seems... nice. Texturally. And while he does not appear so due to his soft human body, he is strong and _smart_. Very clever. He can put his hands in a broken machine and have it working by the time he takes them out. He can make food using complicated human inventions, and has invented things himself to make up for his evolutionary shortcomings. Despite the fact that he exists in this modern world, he knows how to survive if all the amenities humans enjoy were to suddenly disappear.

Certainly, he may not be the ideal mate for… for a star in the middle of the galaxy, but for a human? Castiel can see how he would be an attractive specimen. Objectively speaking.

Tilting his head to the side, the star allows himself further observation, eyes continually drawn to the near-perfect symmetry of him. Particularly intrigued by the shape and look of his mouth, the he allows himself some extra time there, teeth digging into his own bottom lip after he wets it with his tongue. It’s a series of movements he executes subconsciously, yet still he notices Dean swallow thickly as a result. The male leans forward, pressing their foreheads together in a move that has Castiel incredibly short of breath, his feet refusing to cooperate as they slow to standing.

Dean murmurs something too low for Castiel to hear. His arms move, wrapping around Castiel’s waist while Cas’s own drape over his shoulders. They’re impossibly close, now. So much so that the warmth and closeness is overwhelming. Castiel closes his eyes in an attempt to fully grasp it all, brow furrowing as he catalogues every point of contact.

“Cas,” Dean breathes.

Castiel’s stomach swoops. That wasn’t a question, nor did it sound like the beginning of a larger thought. Dean just… just desired to say his name, perhaps. Ridiculously, Castiel thinks that he doesn’t mind Dean saying his name for no reason if it’s said like that; like he can see beyond whatever form he takes and into what Cas truly is. It feels like they’re waiting for something. Dean nose nudges his own and the star feels his eyes flutter open. His first thought is _closer, please closer_ , but how much closer could they possibly get? Short of… of…

Castiel is no stranger to human procreation. Charlie had talked to him about it, briefly: detailing the mechanics of the act between two people of the opposite and same sex. The latter had been something he’d thought strange; why have sex if not to further the species? Why waste such time and energy on an act that could never bear evolutionary fruit? If it was anything like masturbation, he could perhaps see the appeal, but could love truly be a catalyst in wanting to have sex for no outwardly discernable reason? Cas could see people engaging in coitus from his perch among the other stars; the aggressive, clumsy way they’d take each other, boring in its sameness. What he’d saw often left little room for tenderness, which was often just as repetitive and inane as those violent couplings that were so much more frequent. Humans did not dance for each other, they did not wear colourful plumage, nor did they build houses or make gifts for their lovers. Courting was often transactionary in a detached sort of way Castiel could never understand—though, admittedly, this was something that confused him about most of the animals on Earth.

Standing here, now, however… this particular facet of humanity seems to be the latest on a long list he did not truly understand.

This is complex. What he’s feeling has nothing to do with a transaction, and the way Dean’s left hand trails up his side to leave goosebumps in its wake is exciting and heart-stopping in a way that cannot be seen by an outsider. His palm rests on Castiel’s stubbled cheek. They’re so close they share the same breath. Cas’s hands drop down to grip tightly to the loops of Dean’s jeans. His knuckles are white.

Dean’s thumb runs along Castiel’s cheekbone, and their lips brush.

It’s electric.

He knows it can’t be, not really, but that’s how it feels: a series of electric shocks from his toes to the base of his skull, making him tingly and breathless. His lips part in a ragged, shaking breath as Dean immediately pulls back as if to assess, making a sound of surprise when Castiel launches himself on his tiptoes to gain a height advantage. He immediately wraps one arm around the human’s torso and another around his shoulder, pulling them close, desperate for whatever comes next. “Dean,” he says, raw and wrecked.

Their mouths press together.

It’s… immediate and hard before fizzling out like a flame doused in water, turning sweet and steady in a matter of moments. Dean’s arms move to wrap around Cas’s waist, the action causing his shirt to ride up in a move that has him humming. It’s intense. And warm. And _hot_. Dean’s fingers trail across his lower back and Castiel shivers.

They pull away for breath only to come together again, squeezing and pulling and touching. Castiel takes deep lungfuls of air when Dean kisses to the corner of his mouth and down to his neck, nipping at his jaw in a move that has Cas choking off some pleased, inhuman sound. His hands sink into lighter hair. “ _Dean_.”

Dean smiles against his skin.

There have been many times where Castiel has felt acutely in his human body, but this is the most intense by far. Tugging at the strands between his fingers, Cas pulls Dean until they’re kissing properly once again, his heart pounding. He wants something else, he thinks, something more, but doesn’t know what or how to ask for it. Cas opens his mouth in surprise at the first touch of Dean’s tongue and takes stock of the wet kisses they begin to share—messy, but no less enjoyable. Deeper. More…everything.

Castiel thinks he could probably crack open his ribcage and find a shining, molten center where his heart should be.

“I am back and _not dead,_ oh yea—AH! Holy fuck!”

Dean wrenches away, mouth swollen and pink and mesmerizing as he turns an equivalent colour, clearing his throat as he palms the back of his neck. He nods at Charlie. “Yup. Um, we just, uh… yup. Okay.”

And he leaves the room.

Cas stares after him, dazedly touching his own swollen mouth with an increasingly dopey smile. If kisses feel like that, he doesn’t understand why people do anything else at all.

Of her part, Charlie takes one look at Castiel’s dumbfounded, love-struck expression and stalks into the house. Fucking Dean.

Shit just got way more complicated.

 

 

Charlie Bradbury likes to think of herself as a pretty intelligent person. She’s not ashamed to admit she’s a goddamn genius with technology, and she’s not exactly a slouch in the people department—as long as she’s dealing with her friends. She feels she has a pretty good handle on her friends.

When she walks in and sees Dean locking lips with Castiel, she can honestly say she’s shocked. Not because she doesn’t think Dean is attracted to Cas; given the right person, Charlie’s one hundred percent sure Dean would be down to sleep with anyone—alien, human, doesn’t matter as long as there’s chemistry—but this, right here? This is Dean thinking with his dick.

Dean isn’t considering the danger they’re in, or Cas’s emotional vulnerability, or, heck, _literally anything_.

Of course, after she’d made herself known everything had played out predictably.

Which is why she is now watching Dean pace his room, with his hands in his hair, trying to figure out if maybe the split second of what she saw was wrong after all. 

“Look, you know I’m the last person to judge someone based on their preferences, but he is an _alien_ from _space_ . The _government_ is after him! The government! You remember those guys, the ones your dad said were harbouring big secrets like fucking _aliens_ ?! Your apparently not crazy, deluded dad?! The one they took you and Sam from because he went _batshit_?!”

“You were the one who kept teasing me!”

“Yeah, because I didn’t think you’d do it!” He paces more intensely. She follows his movements. “He’s got no idea what he wants, Dean! You can’t just use him for physical release.”

“Ugh, god, don’t say _physical release_.”

“Oh, so you like him? Because he’s not gonna know the difference. He doesn’t know _anything_.”

“You can lay off, okay? It won’t happen again.”

There.

There’s something in the tenseness of his shoulders and the ruddiness of his cheeks. Something in the way he refuses to meet her eyes that is more than regular embarrassment. That is less like getting a hand caught in the cookie jar and more like… shame. “Holy shit. You like him.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Make up your mind.”

“Oh I thought I knew what I was seeing when I saw you macking on him, but I didn’t know the half of it, did I? You _like_ him.”

“I don’t _like_ him, are you five?”

“Fine. You’re interested. In more than sex. You want a relationship.”

“And wanting to ride off into the sunset is somehow better than that?! You! Of all people! This is one real big, real tacky Born Sexy Yesterday shit. What, he’s supposed to love me and only me? I’m supposed to, like, teach him all about humanity and then we fall in love and it’s super romantic forever and ever blah blah blah?”

“Well first of all, if he was ‘Born Sexy Yesterday’, he’d be with _me_ , because _I’ve_ been teaching him the most, and secondly—that’s a freaking trope! Tropes are not real life!”

“They can be!”

“You’re getting off-topic. Not even ten minutes ago you were having the time of your life making out with this guy in the kitchen.”

“Please. It was a little accidental kissing.”

“How do you kiss someone accidentally?”

“Adults do it all the time!”

“Usually after a fuck ton of alcohol, not a sober night spent dancing in the kitchen like Ellie and Carl from _UP_!”

“Who said we were dancing in the kitchen?”

“You were standing in the kitchen and the _radio was on_.”

“Doesn’t mean we were dancing.”

“Fine, you weren’t dancing. But you were definitely kissing. And now, a freaking star is humming and huffing to himself all giggly and happy like a total dumbass.”

Dean looks up. “He is?”

Charlie levels him with a look.

“Whatever, I’m going to bed.”

And Charlie watches, amazed, as Dean Winchester, self-proclaimed adult, ex-survivalist, and thirty-one year-old man, climbs into bed and shuts his eyes. And proceeds to totally ignore her.

“Look, should you have made a move on the emotionally vulnerable alien? Even when you’re clearly into him? Probably not. But you did it. It’s done. And now, you can’t just turn chickenshit and not deal with it. He’s clearly into you, too, so you have to decide one way or another. And none of this back-and-forth self-flagellation bullshit you like to pull on yourself. No matter what you decide, you’re in it. ”

Dean makes no indication that he’s listening.

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

Nothing.

“I give up,” is the last thing Charlie says before leaving the room.

 

 

Castiel doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting at the kitchen table. If he had to guess—conservatively, and judging by the numbness of his backside, he’d say a handful of hours. Not long after the sun spilled across the horizon and sluggishly weaved through the dense tree cover. Charlie has since come and gone, eyeing him with a pitying expression before pressing a mug of tea into his hands. He sits at the table, ignoring Charlie’s increasingly annoying stare from the couch, looking at the slowly brightening hallway.

And he’s having trouble understanding why.

The reason becomes clear to him when, one hour later, Dean emerges scratching at his crotch. The male yawns, smacking his lips and bleary-eyed as he makes his way over to the coffee. When Dean turns around, Cas is made aware he’s standing, chair clattering to the floor behind him. His wide eyes meet Dean’s own. His chest heaves with nervous breath. Dean says, “Uh—oh. Hi, Cas,” and retreats back into his room. The door clicks shut behind him.

Castiel takes stock of himself: wound tight, heart racing, palms sweating… upset. It feels like the rush of emotion from last night has crested in a wave that’s turned sour. The star swallows thickly, a frown pulling at his brows as he slowly places his mug onto the table.

“Cas,” Charlie says. “Dean—”

But Castiel doesn’t hear her, because once again, he’s having an _out of body experience_ , where he’s moving without understanding why. He’s padding down the hallway. Stopped in front of Dean’s door. Knocking (because you knock on closed doors). He’s knocking incessantly. Dean opens the door exasperated, but by then Cas is already shouldering his way inside. They’re chest to chest, and Dean is stuttering and refusing to meet his eyes and Castiel’s chest aches in this low-grade, relentless hurt and he doesn’t understand what he wants or expects, just that he’s confused with his own feelings and Dean’s behaviour and where everything was perfectly simple now nothing makes sense. Except it does, he realizes in a moment of clarity. He knows exactly what he wants.

He kisses Dean.

It’s painful—hard and sharp and nothing like the night before—made even uglier by the fact that Dean _pushes him away_. Hard. “Jesus, Cas, you can’t just go around kissing people!”

He seems angry, which is… strange. It causes the hurt to flare in Castiel’s chest again. Why does Dean no longer want him? What changed between now and last night? He tries again and Dean pushes him more forcefully.

“I said _no_ , Castiel!”

“ _Why_?” He’s asked before he can think the question through, eyes filling with frustrated tears. He feels… betrayed. _What changed_?

“Just—’cause! Fuck. Just—” And then Dean _leaves_.

Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, too exhausted and overwhelmed by emotion to do much else. He sits there for a long time.

Eventually, Charlie helps him out of the room and plies him full of ice cream and _The Princess Bride_. While Cas doesn’t pay attention to what’s on-screen, Charlie’s closeness is greatly appreciated.

“He’ll pull his head out of his ass eventually,” she says against his shoulder. “But in the meantime, you gotta give him space. You can’t go around touching people if they don’t wanna be touched, you know? How would you feel if someone kissed you and you didn’t want to be kissed?"

Castiel bites his lip.

Hooking her chin over his shoulder, she gives him a particularly hard squeeze. “Consent is important. _Both_ of you have to be into it, no ifs, ands or buts. You gotta be able to know what you’re doing, and enthusiastically be like: _heck yeah I wanna to do sexy stuff with this person_. Which, y’know, can change on the daily.”

Was that why Dean was upset?

“Hey, look at me. You’re fine, okay? Dean asked you to stop, and you stopped. Just, in the future, don’t go around touching without permission. I’d apologize to him, though—say sorry—and he’ll come around. But… give him a couple days to cool off. It’ll be fine, Cas.”

But Castiel isn’t sure. In fact, he’s quite certain that human behaviour—Dean’s in particular—will leave him lost and unbalanced for the rest of his short, natural life. 

He wants to go home.

Emotional entanglements were simple there; so far above the Earth, laid out across the cosmos, Castiel had a perspective that made such feelings seem trivial. Love and affection were superficial things applied to family only. This maelstrom of emotion was unheard of because it was non-existent. Because it didn’t matter. Because… it simply wasn’t done. He’d had no capacity for such feelings, then. He had been huge—at least three times the size of Earth’s sun—and very small, inside. Now, in this immediate existence, he feels as if he could fill two universes with all of his internal self.

On Earth, he is never-ending.

 

 

The next few days are awkward in a way they’ve never been before—Dean avoids him at all costs, busying himself with checking the perimeter during the times Cas finds himself inside and hurrying to tend to something indoors when Castiel ventures out. He refuses to eat with them, and when he can’t be found is usually in his room. Indeed, instead of _cooling off_ , Dean seems to make the tension in the shack increase with every passing day… and eventually, it gets to be too much for even an emotionally stunted alien.

He hopes it’s an appropriate time to apologize.

Castiel finishes dinner with Charlie and helps her clean the dishes before marching resolutely to Dean’s closed door. He raises a shaking hand to knock twice, brusquely, before rocking back on his heels.

He’s contemplating the consequences of bolting outside when the door cracks open to reveal a single green eye. “What,” he says gruffly.

Castiel sets his shoulders. “Charlie… um. Explained—consent? Sorry. I didn’t want you—uh, uncomfortable. That was not… was not, ahh… intention? My intention. Sorry.”

The door opens wide enough to fit Dean’s head. The male nods, eyes flicking from the blue of Cas’s eyes to his mouth and staying there. “It’s, ah. S’okay.”

The door clicks shut.

Castiel ignores Charlie’s muffled _motherfucking son of a goddamn bitch coward_ in favour of retreating to his own bed.

 

 

Where Cas assumes that the apology has fixed everything, it becomes quite clear that it hasn’t. For another two torturous days, Dean remains shut up in his room. This is endlessly frustrating to Charlie, judging by the amount of muttering and _stress-cleaning_ she does on a daily basis. It’s frustrating for Castiel, too—what else must he do to fix things—but all the time he spends giving Dean space serves him two-fold:

Firstly, it reminds him that humans are needlessly emotionally complex and, annoyingly, require space and support and a myriad of other things he does not understand. Perhaps this is for the best. Charlie is under the impression that this kissing business only complicates everything and he is definitely inclined to agree with her.

Secondly, it demonstrates to him just how close he and Dean have become—and how much time they usually spend together. It’s ridiculous and strange to long for someone when they’re constantly in proximity to you, but that’s how it seems to be now and for the foreseeable future.

So, Castiel adapts. He starts a garden and goes on more walks with Ern and makes friends with a fox named Tibbit.

He’s eating a grilled cheese sandwich, having perfected the art of it mere moments ago, when Dean joins him on the back stoop.

“Uh, hi.”

Castiel almost chokes on his sandwich.

He’s still coughing when he manages a hacking greeting of his own, pulling his limbs in close to his body as Dean sits as far away from him as possible. “You okay?” the male asks, wincing. “Probably shouldn’ta snuck up on you like that.”

“Okay,” Cas wheezes, swallowing a couple of times. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I am… survive. I think. Can’t be sure.”

Dean grins. “Did you just… make a joke?”

Cas shrugs, forcing casualness in every breath and movement. “I do that sometimes.”

“No kidding.”

Dean is smiling on the tail end of a huffed laugh, his body language having relaxed some. Clearing his throat, Castiel offers the second half of his crispy sandwich. “Want some?”

“Uh…”

Cas raises his plate encouragingly.

“Um, yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

The star watches intently as Dean makes a _cheers_ gesture with his half before crunching into it. He makes a sound that a cross between a hum and a moan, chewing loudly and going into for another bite before he’s even swallowed the first. “Holy _fuck_ , Cas, that’s a damn good sandwich.”

At least, that’s what Cas assume he says. It’s difficult to understand him with his mouth full.

Dean nudges him joyously, and Castiel takes another mouthful of his sandwich, giving him a wide, cheesy grin with round cheeks full of food when the other laughs… and then stops, staring. Castiel swallows so hard the sandwich burns going down his throat.

And that’s when Dean kisses him.

It’s quick, barely an impression of a thing, and as soon as it happens he’s running back into the house. “Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit…”

This time, Castiel is prepared.

The star launches after him, grasping his wrist and spinning Dean to face forward just before he can retreat into his stupid room. “Why?” he demands.

“Cas, just—”

“No,” he says. “No more… b-back and forth. You say no. Why—” he touches his mouth. “Why no?”

Dean stares at him, lip pulled between his teeth. He looks poised to run again, and in an act of desperation, Cas places his hand, palm flat, to his chest, right over his heart. “Dean, please.”

“Fuck.” Taking his hand between his own, the male absently plays with their fingers. He’s looking at them like they hold the meaning of life itself, frowning as he speaks. “Uh, you know about my dad, right? Charlie told you about that.”

Cas nods.

“Yeah, um, well… I ain’t exactly the poster child for normal over here. And like, okay, I get that you’re not exactly normal either but—but you’re _so smart_ , Cas. You’re a genius, seriously, and you’re curious a-and let’s face it, you definitely ain’t hard on the eyes. Just—it’s not a good idea. You don’t… know any better right now. We’re not doing the whole ‘Born Sexy Yesterday’ thing. It’s getting old.”

“Born Sexy… Yesterday.”

Dean blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, um. It’s like you: you’re… a real attractive guy, you don’t know anything about humanity, and you end up falling for the first person who shows interest, even if they’re bad for you. It’s just—it’s tacky, dude. You could do so much better.”

It takes Castiel a moment to process all that, frowning in concentration as words begin to form on his tongue. “I am not… Born Sexy Yesterday.”

Dean takes a deep breath, clearly ready to argue this, when Castiel presses fingers, once again, to his mouth. He wants to kiss him now more than ever. “I am…” The star screws his face up, searching his limited vocabulary. “Old? Big? Grown? _Not_ a baby,” he says seriously. “Can— _I_ can… make, ah. Choice. Good choice. For… me. And I—w-want? Want. To do much and many kissing with you.” He inclines his head, then, moving his hand to press against a blushing, freckled cheek for emphasis. “ _A lot_. Don’t know what happens, um. Later? But now, you… should respect me. My choice. Not…” He trails off, here. For the life of him, he can’t find the words to express his next thought.

Dean seems to understand, regardless. He nods, shaking hands moving to rest atop Cas’s hips. “Ah,” he says, sheepish. “M’nervous, I guess.”

Castiel forces himself into casual motion. For someone who wanted this so badly, he put little thought into what it would mean if he got it. What must it look like to his brothers and sisters who remain skybound? A betrayal? Are they even watching? Does that matter? Briefly, the star lifts an arm to press fingers against his tattoo, shrugging. There is no earthly way he will be returning home. Denying himself anything on this planet is, at this juncture, pointless… especially when his time is short. Swallowing thickly, he moves closer, clumsy. “Can’t know later.” His voice is trembling. “Only now.”

“Yeah.”

The word comes out on a single breath, quiet in the air between them. Dean is staring at his mouth. He’s staring intently. Castiel _thinks_ that means he wouldn’t be averse to kissing.

“Kiss?” he asks faintly.

Dean licks his lips. Swallows thickly. Nods. “Yeah.”

So Castiel kisses him.

He rushes forward before his loses his nerve, noses crunching and teeth clacking as Dean stumbles back from the force of it. They hit the wall at a speed that causes the single picture frame on the wall to fall of its hook. Hands pull and touch and press, and Castiel, personally, thinks it’s all going quite well until Dean pulls back— _woah woah_ —and traps Cas’s wrists in his hands.

“No good?” Castiel pants, even as he moves forward again. This time, when Dean moves away, he smiles.

“Take it easy, okay? We don’t gotta do it all at once.”

Cas considers this. “All at once?”

“Yeah like… right now. Immediately. This second. We got time, you know?”

“Okay.” Enthusiastically, Castiel presses forward yet again.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean huffs through a laugh. His hands are firm and warm against the star’s wrists, his thumbs moving back and forth over the tender skin on the inside. It’s nice. Even nicer is the way Dean’s fingers trace down his arm to cup the base of his skull. They play with the short hairs at his nape, and Castiel shivers even though he isn’t cold. He likes this: the feeling that this moment is suspended in time, the stomach-swooping sensation of knowing maybe, most likely, hopefully, what’s coming next.

When they kiss this time, it’s a tentative thing. More of a checking in than anything else—soft and warm and _is this okay_. From there, Dean is more assertive: an arm wrapping around Cas’s waist, holding him close, leading him in a series of wet, loftier kisses—languid, unrushed things. Cas’s hands are rooted to Dean’s biceps, fingers twisting in the sleeves of his t-shirt. They pull and press more slowly this time, the soft sounds of their kisses interspersed with hums and sighs and pointless, breathy murmurs of their names. When Dean nips Cas’s bottom lip, the star’s knees almost buckle.

“Mmm, maybe we should—ah. Bed?”

Yes, being prone sounds _very good_ right about now.

Sitting down turns to lying side-by-side turns to Cas splayed atop Dean. He’d started squirming a little while ago, trying to get at the slowly growing itch under his skin to no avail. The accidental humping motion had pulled a breathy moan from Dean’s mouth—“okay?” “mm, c’mere.”—and while Cas has tried to replicate his movements with all the grace of an asteroid falling out of orbit, he seems to have been successful: Castiel’s t-shirt has ridden up to his armpits, Dean’s hands cupping his posterior for seemingly no other reason than he likes the feel of it. Which is good, because Cas enjoys the heat of his palms. His own hands are buried in lighter hair. They’re going _hot and heavy_ as pop culture from the year 1980 has taught him. In point of fact, they are _making out_ like youth home alone for the first time. It’s exciting. In… many ways. Yet despite the gyrating and its physical effects, he and Dean seem to be caught in this lazy cycle of easy and simple pleasure.

 _No rush_.

Eventually, Dean pulls away, rolling them over and covering him completely: arms looping under his to hold him tight, Cas’s legs hiked up his waist, hips grinding hard in one deep thrust that has Castiel biting off a pleasurable yelp. Cas’s hands scrabble at his shoulders when Dean kisses him surprisingly gentle. He pulls away to meet Cas’s too-blue eyes and swallows quickly. “God,” he croaks. His head buries in the crook of Castiel’s neck, depositing wet kisses to every bare inch of skin he can reach. Cas sighs and turns his head to allow him easier access. Dean groans at that.

He moves from Castiel’s neck, to his jaw, to pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose, and laughs when Cas goes cross-eyes trying to follow him. “Man,” he breathes, thumb gently tracing Castiel’s kiss-swollen bottom lip. “I am so fucked.”

Beneath him, pleasantly warm and pliable, Castiel bites his lip. He thinks he understands; Dean could end him right here and now if he wished it. But… he doesn’t think he will. Cas thinks they could be doing this naked, that Dean could be inside him, and he’d be just as relaxed. He thinks he could fall asleep like this, tangled in him, and not only feel safe but not be stifled. That is what he thinks.

It’s terrifying. For a lot of reasons, but mostly because it would take nothing for Dean to hurt him. Because he has a sinking feeling that he will only become more vulnerable from here. And yet, as terrifying as it is, it is also exciting. Cas has never felt so present in his physical form as when they’re kissing. He has never felt positive emotion to any intensity even approaching when he feels when he’s near Dean. Charlie too, for that matter, though the feelings she inspires are slightly different. It turns out human emotion is interesting and contradictory and complicated.

So it’s also very simple.

 _I am so fucked_ —Castiel understands the sentiment behind it, the helplessness and wonder and terror of it all. It’s a comfort to know he’s not alone in it. More than that, it’s heady. Cas tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind Dean’s ear a la _Sixteen Candles_ , biting back a smile. He says: “Me too.”

Dean kisses him again.

 

 

For the first time since Falling, Castiel sleeps past five in the morning. He wakes just past eight, wrapped around Dean’s back—the _big spoon_ , as he’d been informed last night—and stretches against the male’s body, humming and bleary-eyed.

He can’t believe he spent the night here.

The details of why are fuzzy; he can’t even remember falling asleep, only cuddling and talking in tired, broken sentences. Now, Castiel’s left hand is entwined with Dean’s and resting over his freckled stomach, their legs entangled, like Cas is protecting him from something in sleep. He carefully shifts to press a kiss to the male’s cheek.

Truly, Dean is beautiful—even with all the generally unattractive human features. There are the beginnings of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the rest of his skin unblemished but for the melanin deposits that seem to paint him head to toe. They’re called _freckles_ and they get more intense in the summer because of the sun. Dean had seemed ashamed and uncomfortable with them when he’d explained last night, but they’re Cas’s favourite part of him; in their clusters and constellations, they’re like stars.

Castiel presses a kiss to the nebula at the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, pulling away with a bitten lip. It takes more willpower than he’d ever expected to rip himself from bed, but he needs to urinate and might as well brush his teeth, and that anxious, itchy feeling is starting to build under his skin. He performs the first two acts with little enthusiasm, making himself a tea before pulling on a sweater, some socks, and heading outside to sit on the back stoop. The fact that it’s eight in the morning means the night sky has long-since faded… now, everything is bathed in the soft, golden light of a run that illuminated a blue sky. In Castiel’s opinion, it will never compare to its nocturnal counterpart, but there’s beauty to be found in the day as well.

Castiel sits alone for thirty-six minutes, sipping his tea and playing with a particularly brave and curious bumblebee, before Charlie joins him. He knows it’s her by her gait: heavy footfalls on flat feet, tiptoeing automatically every few steps.

“Hey, Cas.” She comes to press a kiss to the side of his head, squeezing his shoulder before disappearing into the house once more, most likely to get coffee. Where Castiel would normally stay out until movement in the kitchen begins in earnest, he ventures in early today, sitting at the table with a smile to answer Charlie’s raised brow.

He isn’t waiting long.

Dean explodes out of his bedroom, throwing himself towards the back door. It clatters open and shut quickly, followed by the slamming of each and every door in the hall until he stumbles into the kitchen. “Cas is—” They die in his throat when he sets eyes on Castiel, the star tensed and ready to jump to Dean’s aid should the situation call for it. “Oh,” he mutters, uselessly straightening his shirt. “Um. Morning.” His cheeks are so red they’re emanating heat, and he stiltedly leans in to press a perfunctory kiss to the bow of Castiel’s lips, eyes darting away as he clears his throat.

Cas, meanwhile, stares unabashedly, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Morning,” he says, all at once pleased and bewildered.

“…Morning,” Charlie pipes up, smirking into her mug.

Dean glares at her, but Charlie seems to be totally undeterred.

“Nice to see you in it,” she says. 

Silence.

“Well! I’m gonna go be… anywhere else.” On her way out, she presses a kiss to Cas’s cheek and pinches Dean’s butt. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

The door slams shut behind her.

“…Breakfast?” Castiel asks in an attempt to alleviate some of the awkwardness.

Dean smiles.

They eat and talk, which is nice, but not as nice as the feeling of Dean’s bare toes against his calf. Over the course of the meal, their chairs end up brought together like the two poles of a magnet, until Dean is leaning against his side and holding his hand and kissing at the side of his face and neck, and saying, “wanna watch some TV?”

What a stupid question.

The couch is infinitely more comfortable than the table. Cas assumes that _watching TV_ in this case is a euphemism for more kissing, and is overjoyed to apparently be correct in that assumption. By the time the title sequence for _The Passions of Santos_ has finished, Dean is straddling Castiel’s lap and the star is digging fingers into freckled hips. “I like kissing,” he says, hands moving up to slide under Dean’s shirt.

“Mm, me too.”

 

 

The problem, Castiel thinks, is that he adores kissing to the point of distraction.

Cas isn’t an idiot: he knows there are many different ways to show physical affection. There’s kissing, cuddling, hugging… and on the more explicit side of the spectrum, sex. There are, apparently, a myriad of different ways to have sex as well, which makes Dean’s avoidance of any and all sexual activity very _very_ frustrating. And how does he avoid the topic? Kisses.

When Castiel had tried to talk about sex one night in the hammock, Dean had kissed him until he’d forgotten what he’d meant to say. When Cas had then tried in the kitchen, they’d ended up making out, one of them seated on the counter.

When Cas had decided words weren’t working and had tried to touch Dean’s penis—over his clothes _while kissing_ —the human had doubled down and kissed him so stupid Castiel had had trouble remembering his own name.

So Castiel takes matters into his own hands, as it were.

 

 

“Mm, Cas, that’s—woah okay!”

Castiel pulls away, eyes narrowed. Where they’d been kissing, stripped to their underwear, tangled up in each other only moments ago, Dean is now on the opposite side of the bed, hand quickly tucking himself back into what Charlie calls his _tighty-whities_. Cas only gets a glimpse of the flushed head of his cock before his hands are cupping his genitals as if to protect them. The star groans and slumps forward onto the mattress. “I am…confused.”

“Yeah, well, join the club,” Dean huffs. “What happened to taking it slow?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice muffled as he speaks into the sheets. “We take it slow. For _three weeks_ it is so slow I could have visited the end of the Universe before you allow me to touch your _buttocks_.”

“Jesus Christ, do not say _buttocks_.”

“It’s the truth! Irrefutable! I want—”

“Well, it ain’t always about what you want, Cas! Especially for this.”

Castiel freezes. A horrified coldness spreads down his back as he plays that sentence over and over in his mind. He turns his head, eyes wide. “This is consent. You don’t want—”

“Well—no. I consent. I want, too, I just—”

“Then _why_?”

“Look, you’re just so new to this, I don’t want us to do something you’ll regret.”

Castiel squints. “You are aware of how old I am, yes?”

“You’re old as balls, I get it. And you’re an adult. I know—”

“I am three billion years old, add or subtract about one million. The early years are hard to count in Earth time.” Grunting, the star pushing himself up on his knees and begins to shimmy off his boxers, tossing them to a corner of the room and letting himself fall and subsequently bounce on the mattress. Despite clearly _wanting_ to look, Dean keeps his gaze on the sheets. “Dean,” Cas says seriously. He reaches forward to cup the male’s face gently, eyes as earnest as he can possibly manage as green finally meets blue. “I want more touching. I can’t promise I’ll like it, or that I’ll want to make more of it, but I want to try. After three billion years, I have that right, yes? As long as you’re willing, too.”

Dean bites his lip, eyes flicking down to take in Castiel’s nudity. “You a hundred percent sure?”

“If you continue to ask this question, I will leave and never come back. I swear it.”

An exasperated sigh. “Cas—”

“ _Dean_.” The star squeezes his palms, making Dean’s cheeks squish comically. He scoots closer, pressing their faces together. Humans enjoy this, he knows. They enjoy the closeness. He’s seen it endlessly from space and on the television. “Do you trust me?”

Dean’s response is muffled: “What kind of question is that? Of course—”

“Then trust me,” he says, lowly, seriously. “When I say that I am ready, and impatient, and will tell you to stop if I am not enjoying myself. Capiche?”

Green eyes narrow. “Where’d you learn that word?”

“Charlie made me watch _The Godfather_ this morning.”

“Huh. You a fan?”

“I feel we’re getting off-topic. But yes, it was good. Very violent, which is something I did not enjoy.”

“Yeah well,” Dean shrugs. “It’s the mafia.” His cheeks are still squished, and they are still close together, which Cas is certain indicates that this technique for establishing further connection is a raging success.

“Do we have a bargain or not?”

“You can just say ‘deal’. Do we have a _deal_ —”

“Dean.”

“ _Fine_.” Pulling out of Cas’s grasp, the male works his jaw as if stretching it. “You promise to tell me the second you feel even a little uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Not to see things through because you’ve decided this is, and I quote _a paragon of human experience_? Which it isn’t. Sex is just sex.”

“Yes.”

“And you promise to stop me if you’re not enjoying yourself? I don’t mean feeling bad, which—stop me if that happens, too, but also just not having fun. The point is to have fun.”

“We could be ‘having fun’ now.”

“Cas.”

“ _Yes._ Fine. Yes.”

“Okay, then I accept your deal.”

“Fantastic.” They’ve wasted so much time already, Castiel thinks it’s understood that he’d want to get right to the heart of the thing, and quickly. But when he darts forward to grab Dean’s penis, the male makes this embarrassed yelp and in his haste to move away, falls off the side of the bed.

Cas’s head pokes over the side with a frown. His heart sinks to his stomach. “I’m starting to feel as if you don’t want this, no matter how much you say you do.”

“It’s not that.”

Climbing back onto the bed, Dean heards Cas towards the headboard, completely ignoring his nudity and straddling his hips as if nothing is different. Which, Castiel supposes there _isn’t_ anything different, really. “You know what seduction is, Cas?” he asks lowly. His wonderful, beautifully calloused hand has drifted down to thumb at the trail of hair under his navel. Cas arches in an attempt to get him touching lower, but Dean’s hand stays where it is.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, nipping at his earlobe. The star feels his breath stutter in his chest. “You ever heard of seduction? The verb is: to seduce.”

“N-No.” Cas moves to kiss him, hard and desperate and wanting, but Dean is a wall of slow sweetness. He doesn’t let it go on for even half as long as it should, pulling away to give something between a smile and a smirk. “Dean, please—”

“Seduction,” the male interrupts, “is when you make someone real desperate for the kind of touching you want right now. When you entice ‘em with your actions to having sex.”

Dean presses kisses along his jawline, hands moving to press flat against his pectorals, fingers deliberately brushing his nipples.

“Are you seducing me right now?” Cas asks, breathless as he drapes arms around the other’s neck.

“I’d say I’m trying. How’m I doing?” Dean leans down to press a line of wet kisses to Cas’s sternum, going lowerlower _lower_ until he’s right above the star’s hardened cock, laving attention on the skin there. Castiel’s hands have moved to bury in his hair, knees bent to put his feet flat on the mattress as he gasps.

“V-Very effective.”

Cas doesn’t even realize his eyes have fallen shut until hands skate up his thighs, Dean huffing a low laugh against his skin. The male moves, then, crawling up Castiel’s body to kiss him, languid and wet. Cas’s right leg moves to rest half across Dean’s posterior. “This, um. Mm. This seduction is spectacular, but I want—Dean, I need—”

“I know what you need.”

They’ve stopped kissing, but are so close their mouths practically brush with every whispered word. Castiel makes a sound not unlike a whimper as he feels Dean’s left hand slide down his body. He makes a kind of choked off moan when he moves to cup his testicles, rolling them lightly against his palm.

“That good?”

Cas crushes their mouths together in answer. “Dean,” he whimpers, the name muffled against the other’s lips. “Dean, _please_ —I don’t—please—”

“Shh, I got you.” He sits up in a move that has Castiel feeling bereft in a way he’d never thought possible, protesting pathetically as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Wait, don’t—please—”

He’s stopped dead when Dean, impressively tenting the front of his underwear, shimmies to remove them.

Castiel’s eyes aren’t certain where to look: the delicate flush of Dean’s chest and cheeks; the way his bowed legs fall open as he sits; the blushing, wet head of his penis and the wiry curls at its base; or… the entire image—Dean watching Castiel stare, green eyes hooded, lip held between his teeth, as he displays himself like some kind of human deity. “Beautiful,” Cas breathes.

Dean’s flush deepens, and he clears his throat as if to calm himself. “Well shucks, Cas.”

“Like, um… that sculpture— _David_ . Or, ah. The human god _Aphrodite_.” He reaches out, pausing halfway through the motion in a sudden bout of nervousness. Where does he touch? Which areas are the most pleasurable?

Dean catches his hand where it’s suspended mid-air, pressing it, palm flat, right above his heart. “Start here?”

Swallowing thickly, Castiel nods. He moves closer, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the now bright red apple of his cheek. He then kisses Dean properly, thoroughly… and his hand slides lower; down his chest, over his stomach past his navel. Cas pulls away when his fingers brush the hot velvet of Dean’s penis, their foreheads resting against one another’s as they look down to watch.

Carefully, Castiel grabs hold of him, taking a deep breath. Now that he’s here, he’s drawing a blank—what does he like on himself? How did he do this the last time? Biting his lip, the star sets his shoulder and closes his fist, squeezing and moving in a tight, short jerking motion.

The sound Dean makes can’t exactly be described as pleasurable.

“Gentle!” he wheezes, hand atop Cas’s own, to prevent him from doing further damage. Castiel quickly lets go, moving back on the bed with a bitten lip. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “S’okay,” he says tightly, even though it doesn’t sound like it is. “Here, I’ll walk you through it.”

They use something called _lube_ , and put it _everywhere_. Dean’s philosophy is: “never too much lube.” He wraps Cas’s slick fist around his equally slick penis, and gives an experimental tug—not too tight, this time. This time, the sound Dean makes also pained, Cas thinks, but there’s something breathy about it there wasn’t before. He waits for feedback.

“That was good,” Dean says, wrapping his hand around Castiel’s. He starts an unrushed pumping motion, sighing and whimpering and groaning. Soon after, his hand is gone and it’s his hips helping—making little jerking motions as he ruts into Cas’s fist. His groans have turned to pleasurable moans, an arm wrapped around the star’s shoulders, face buried into his neck as words begin tumbling from his lips:

“So good.”

“Cas—ungh, yeah.”

“Mm fuck yeah baby.”

With every declaration he sounds more desperate, but this last gives him pause, and Castiel comes to a full stop despite Dean’s agonized cries to keep going. “Baby?” he asks.

“Yes _baby_ keep fucking going!”

“I’m not an infant.”

“Jesus, I know—just _please_ —”

Narrowing his eyes, the star does as he’s bid, resuming the motion of his hand. In an attempt to please Dean further, and therefore get his question answered, he goes faster. “What does it mean?”

“Endearment,” Dean gasps. His whole body seems to be tightening, pulled taut, as he squeezes his eyes closed. “Darlin’, honey, sweetheart—CasCasCas!”

White spurts across Dean’s chest and over Castiel’s hand just as the male collapses, chest heaving with breath. As Cas is carefully observing the fluid on the back of his hand, Dean pulls away to look at him. “It’s come,” he says. “Sorry, I shoulda warned you—”

Semen tastes bitter.

Shrugging, Castiel wipes the rest on his side and gives a smile, head tilting in confusion at the wide-eyed expression on Dean’s face. “Was that wrong?” he asks.

“Uh—nope,” the male says, swallowing thickly. “No, that was… ” He trails off, here, gaze resting on Cas’s mouth. “Hey, I wanna try something. Okay?”

“Please.”

Dean smiles.

He starts off as expected: with a kiss, tongue snaking out to taste himself as he hums. From there, things are… different. The neck kissing is the same, and the nipping at his collarbones, but instead of retreating upwards, the male moves further down in a trial of sloppy, open-mouthed things—like Cas is a delicacy to be samples rather than a human being. It’s second nature to pet Dean’s hair the further down he draws, so caught up in the wonderful sensation of it all that he almost jumped out of his skin when he feels the male licking a hot stripe up his flushed cock.

Castiel almost chokes on his own tongue.

Dean’s mouth envelops him completely, and the star’s back arches and his toes curl, a needy, high noise tearing from his throat as his hand sink into lighter hair. If this is how his human has decided to do this, it will be over before it ever really starts. The male is hot and wet around him, bobbing up and down in the sweetest kind of suction. He looks… oh, he looks so beautiful, drooling a little bit, pulling back to lick at the head of his cock before swallowing him to the hilt, encouraging Castiel to grab his hair and guide him.

The star’s skin tingles and his eyes squeeze shut and that thing that builds inside of him when he touches himself, it’s tenfold, now, squeezing and squeezing until, “ _Dean, I_ —”

He whites out.

Cas is panting. He’s sweaty. And he… has never felt this way. He is so exhausted even turning to look at the human feels like too much of an effort, his laziness tempered with a kind of deep-seated contentment and relaxation—a feeling of being _sated_ —that he wouldn't have thought possible. "Thank you," the star huffs out, still breathless as Dean swallows and crawls up his body. The bedside lamp that had been on a minute ago is out, now. Giving it a cursory look, the human leans in, laughing through a kiss.

"You're welcome."

Cas narrows his eyes. "People don't thank their partners after having an orgasm?"

"Not really," Dean says, hand moving up to trace the line of his sternum. "But it's kinda cute that you do."

Castiel hums, considering this. "I appreciate all your hard work," he says seriously, moving to thumb at Dean's jaw. "Ozodien.”

"What's that mean?" Dean's green eyes have turned heavy, the question asked on the tail end of a yawn as he cuddles into Cas's side.  

Castiel holds him just as close. “If my people spoke the way yours do," he says quietly. "This is what I would call you: oh-zod-ee-en.” He runs long fingers through the human's lighter hair, mouth tugging up at Dean's exhausted hum of contentment. “‘Mine own.’” 

“Oh-zod-ee-en?”

“I think so, yes. If we vocalized. As it is… we speak by way of telepathy. And human ears can’t hear a star sing.”

“You guys sing?”

Cas nods, turning to look up at the ceiling, ignoring the heavy weight that seems to settle upon his heart. “Sometimes.”

They stay like that for a long moment, Cas staring at the ceiling and Dean at the side of his face, before the human wraps an arm around his middle and gives an encouraging smile. “Wanna makeout?”

It takes a moment, but Castiel sees the deflection for what it is: a kindness, and not some confusing break in conversation. Narrowing his eyes playfully, he scoots towards the male, nuzzling their noses briefly like he’s seen in the movies. “I think I’d prefer more sex right now.”

“You think?” Dean teases.

Cas grins. “I’m reasonably certain, yes.”

“You’re an asshole.” The male is smiling so hard it’s hard to kiss him, but they make do. When Cas rolls on top of him, Dean hums. “Gimme a minute, hot shot. I ain’t sixteen anymore.”

“I’ll wait.”

Dean levels him with a him a look, then, one that’s layered with something… more. He gives a little nod, moving in for a kiss that is so soft and tender Cas could cry. When he pulls back, it’s with a blush that stains the tips of his ears.

“’Preciate it.”

 

 

Charlie refers to it as ‘dating’, but that term continues to remind Castiel of dried fruit. He knows he and Dean are in a romantic relationship, however. They kiss a lot, and touch often, and have sex all kinds of ways: giggling in the dead of night, hard and fast in the middle of doing laundry, soft and sweet in the middle of the woods… when Cas discovers that cuddling with Dean helps manage his nocturnal claustrophobia, they start sleeping inside (Dean is much more sensitive to temperature, and gets cold out-of-doors). It takes a few nights to decide who will be the ‘big spoon’, but eventually, Dean ceases his whining and admits he enjoys being held after all. Castiel thinks this most likely due to his position of protector in the family and his desire to be protected himself, but doesn’t say anything. He’d foolishly done so last week and things had gotten uncomfortable.  

Castiel’s favourite thing about dating is by far lazing in bed. Today in particular had been unforgivingly hot, the air stuffy and boiling inside the cabin even with the blinds drawn and windows open. Despite the fact that the sun has long since disappeared, the heat refuses to dissipate, leaving Dean and Castiel naked and lounging in bed.

“These are lovely,” Cas says, leaning down to deposit a kiss on a particularly dense cluster of freckles. Dean twists his torso to look and frowns.

“Nah, they’re not attractive to humans. Plus, they mean I don’t tan, like, at all. Just burn.”

“Well, I like them.”

Dean stares at him, the tips of his ears flushing a light pink before he clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yes. They’re like stars. All over, you’re painted with them, like… like the fabric of the universe made flesh.” He presses hands to his cheek and kneads the muscle, causing Dean to groan. “Additionally, your butt is especially well-formed.”

“Well thanks, Cas. You got a great ass, too.”

Castiel pinches the rounded flesh in question with a grin, giving a pleased, joyous kind of yelp at Dean’s subsequent playful growl and manhandling of his person; the human throws himself atop Cas’s body, getting his hand under his posterior and squeezing. “Oh god, yeah, that’s nice. Forgot for a second but,” he squeezes a second time, “that is one fantastic ass.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Cas beams.

“Mm, and somehow, you love it.”

The star laughs. “Somehow,” he agrees. He doesn’t realize he’s been laughing so hard his eyes are closed until they’re open again, this time revealing a very different expression on Dean’s face. It’s intense—possibly worried? Or scared? Reading faces continues to be something at which Castiel is not very skilled.

“Dean?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

They’re sweaty and sticky from the heat, and Dean’s expression is so earnest when he breaks out into a helpless kind of smile that Cas feels his knees turn weak despite the fact that he’s lying down.

“I’m good,” the male says, leaning in to kiss him long and languid and deep. He pulls away with flushed cheeks. “I’m great.”

  
  
  
  


**DAY TWO HUNDRED**

_“There is perhaps no better a demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world.”_

                                                                         — Carl Sagan in Time magazine, 9 January 1995, describing the Pale Blue Dot image of Earth,                                                                                                                              taken by the Voyager 1 spacecraft 6 billion kilometres away in 1990.

 

Something is not right.

Castiel wakes with something weighing on his heart. He itches beneath his skin and his head hurts, arm hair standing on end for no apparent reason. It’s raining, too, lightly, but fog blankets the ground and gets caught among the trees. The clouds are low today.

And Cas has to go outside.

He frowns at the window, hand pressed to his heart before turning to look at Dean. Dean, who has an arm thrown around his waist and snores every seven minutes. He looks lovely all the time, but especially in sleep, where the worries of the day have sloughed off his shoulders and he is young and happy and peaceful. His hair is mussed and the sheet only covers his right butt-cheek, his back littered with red lines from Cas’s short nails and dark marks from his mouth. His cheeks are rosy and his eyelashes are so long and thick they fan out against his freckled cheeks.

Castiel is loathe to leave him.

That feeling that he has; the one that’s too big for his chest every time he even so much as looks at Dean—that feeling has only grown, his heart so big and full with emotion that he’s often amazing his ribcage is able to hold it all. He thinks, maybe, this is what humans mean when they say they love someone; that this quiet, fierce emotion that has tied itself to the root of his heart is what humanity is so completely obsessed with.

It’s wonderful and terrifying all in the same breath.

Leaning down, Cas presses a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, smiling as he pulls away. When he comes back, he’ll ask Charlie, and… and maybe he’ll tell Dean.

Pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, Castiel pads out of the room and makes his way outside.

There is an Ern-shaped shadow in the fog beyond the treeline, and Castiel moves to greet him, uncaring of the mud that splashes up his legs. The elk is waiting for him, bowing low once before standing extremely still. Cas runs a hand over his back and bites his lip.

Hair now damp and stuck to his forehead, the star leaps onto Ern’s back with an ethereal grace. “Okay,” he says, looking back at the cabin. Once he finds out what’s wrong, he’ll be right back. Dean won’t have even known he left.

Ern starts walking.

 

 

The stones are rough and sharp against the soft skin of his feet, and their unevenness has Castiel stumbling as he dismounts. Nudging his arm, the animal licks at his wrist once before leaning down and taking a drink in the lake, his body bent in graceful slope. Castiel allows himself a moment of admiration. He steps forward himself, the tips of his toes submerged in the cold water as he stares out at water. Fog blankets its inky surface, obscuring the horizon and the trees he can feel on the opposite shore. It’s peaceful, here, and quiet but for the birds who have started flitting closer. Only a moment later, a bright red one lands on his head. Cas’s mouth turns up a little at the corners.

Fish brush up against his toe, and a curious looking elongated mammal— _otter_ , his brain supplies helpfully—curiously dances around mere feet from him, as if it can’t decide whether to come play or run in fear.

Something tugs at his heart, and he frowns, looking out towards the vast expanse of water. Brows furrowing more deeply, he steps forward once, then twice, barely catching himself when he slips on the slimy rocks underfoot. At his movement in the water, the tugging becomes more insistent. It _hurts_ , and Castiel finds himself moving ever-towards it more frantically, scraping his feet and falling onto his knees in the water. It’s freezing, but he can barely feel it, pushing aside the plants that come to meet him and moving with such intent that he terrifies all those creatures who’d been previously eager to meet him. Water swallows his waist and ribs and shoulders. In what feels like seconds he’s precariously bobbing above water, moving his arms and legs in some discombobulated attempt at staying afloat while trying to reach the opposite shore.

Water floods his mouth and nose, and Castiel manages to heave himself up enough to cough and wheeze through a breath in the same moment before sinking down again. His chest squeezes in a panic so all-consuming he cannot pinpoint its origin. Steeling himself, the star pushes ever forward, limbs turning heavy as he splashes around uselessly, expending precious energy in his pursuit to find the source of what had tugged at his heart.

Something wraps around him and _pulls_.

Too many things happen at once: Castiel coughs and gags and chokes out water, the stuff streaming down his face and obscuring his vision as his strains against his bonds. There is yelling, and splashing, and then the tug is such that Castiel can _barely feel it he can’t hold on stopstop_ —“STOP!”

He is ignored.

Castiel is hauled onto the rocky shore, scrabbling at his captor as they press hands to his soaked shirt and push the sodden hair from his face. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ—ah, shit, _stop it_! Are you insane?! We—what the— _ow_! We doing such a good job of keeping you safe that you decided to fucking drown yourself?! Ah— _get the hell away from us_!”

Dean.

And Ern.

Dean is yelling and throwing his body over Cas’s own, angry and loud while Ern uses his antlers to push at the male’s body aggressively. With every whack of bone against his person, Dean grunts and swears, becoming more aggressive himself, which only seems to egg Ern on.

“Get the—GET OFFA ME YOU CRAZY FUCKER—”

The feeling slips in between his ribs, lost like a whisper he can’t grasp. It leaves an emptiness inside of him, something compact and heavy, like a black hole inside claustrophobic prison of his chest. Staring towards the source of the feeling as if doing so will give him answers as to what he’s just lost, the star blinks rapidly against the blurriness of his vision. He can’t understand why he’s crying.  

“GODDAMN OVERGROWN DEER—”

“ _Ern_!”

The elk shoots him what appears to be a glare, but backs away, suspicious gaze moving returning to Dean. Dean, who continues to curse and mutter and is already beginning to bruise.

Castiel can’t seem to stop looking out over the water.

 

 

Dean carries him partway back to the cabin on his back, Cas closing his eyes and listening to the _thumpthump_ of his heart. The sound is comforting. By the time they reach the house, the sun is beginning to set. Castiel has a cheek pressed to Dean’s head at this point, staring blankly at darkening forest. He feels cold and tired and empty. Charlie rushes out to meet them.

“Did he malfunction or something?” she jokes.

Dean shakes his head. “He almost drowned.”

“What?”

“He followed his elk to a lake about five miles from here, and then was like, brain-washed or something and got pulled into the lake.”

“What the hell…”

The rest of Charlie’s thought is lost to the odd ringing in Castiel’s ears, his hearing whooshing in and out of clarity. He feels, upset and oddly weightless. Dean and Charlie help him into something warmer and feed him a warm broth of some sort before guiding him to bed. It must be late, or maybe it’s an early night for everyone, because Dean drapes himself over Cas’s side and doesn’t leave him. He’s warm and soft and lovely, and Castiel wants desperately to sleep but there is something in the corner of his heart that refuses to let him. So he stays awake until his skin itches and his side hurts and he has to get up.

It’s difficult to extricate himself from Dean’s hold, but he manages to do so without waking the other man. Cas barely glances back to ensure he’s still sleeping before padding outside. For what purpose, he has no idea, but something in his chest eases when he finds himself out-of-doors, and so he lies down in his hammock.  

Castiel tosses and turns until he’s almost motion sick.

He paces around the backyard and presses the soles of his feet into the grass. He sits, cross-legged, and closes his eyes, hoping to be pulled in one direction or another. He goes inside to lay on the couch before prowling the kitchen and returning out-of-doors to sit on the front stoop. He sits there for exactly thirty seconds before walking to the edge of the woods. He waits. For what, he doesn’t know… and he’s just about to give up and leave again when movement alerts him to someone else’s presence.

That someone is Ern.

Castiel knows what he’s supposed to do.

He mounts the animal gracefully, hands loosely holding the scruff of Ern’s neck. The elk walks slowly and mindfully in the dark, but is steady in his pace. He carries Castiel as if it is his great honour to do so.

When they finally arrive at the lake, Ern takes him around the rocky beach. They’ve amassed a cavalry at this point; field mice and weasels and other brave nocturnal beings play between Ern’s hooves and follow along in the dirt and the trees. The star remains absolutely still but for his eyes; squinting, trying to observe what lays beyond—what seems to tear his chest open and drown him in a yawning emptiness.

And then Ern stops.

Castiel dismounts.

He is pulled forward heart first, the way lit by the pitiful light reflected of a waning moon. Still, Cas doesn’t stumble—he is sure in his path over rock and fallen tree.

He finds himself at a large mound of black fur, unmoving. A bear. Young, by the size of him, and curled into himself. Handsome, as far as his understanding of the species goes. Healthy. Or… he was. Further observation demonstrates that he has expired. The realization has tears springing to Castiel’s eyes, the star carefully stepping forward to place a hand to him. He yelps when his foot crunches against something unforgivingly cold and hard.

Frowning, Cas forces light into his palm, hovering over his bloodied, mangled bare toes and what has harmed him; a human invention, the thing is made of sharp, bleeding teeth in a jaw composed of metal, like it is frozen in the act of consumption.

It is attached to the bear’s leg.

_The bear’s leg._

He quickly crouches, fingers gently brushing the matted, bloodied fur on the creature’s paw before lifting it. There is a mechanism at the bottom of the mouth, something that could allow the mouth to open and close but that, when pressed down, would slam the two jaws of rusted teeth together with such force they’d break bone.

This isn’t a device meant to kill honourably—this is a device to aimed maim and torture. Once caught, the bear couldn’t walk. It could barely move. All it could do… was wait.

Castiel is pulling at the device before his mind can process what he’s feeling. His breath has been stolen from his lungs, coming in short bursts of overwhelming panic as he claws at sharp mouth. This bear was alone out here. He was alone and by some awful twist of fate, he stepped on—on this _thing_ and _the rest of his life_ being tortured. His last moments were spent suffering at the hands of some contraption created by humans. He didn’t deserve that. _No one_ deserves that.

“Off,” the star mutters, shaking his head as his attempts to unlock the mouth grow more frenzied. “Off off OFF!” Castiel’s skin tears in the process, muscles burning with the effort until the thing comes apart in his hands with the almighty clang and screech of metal. He vengefully hurls both pieces to the ground before collapsing there, himself. He can’t see or breathe for how hard he’s crying, his chest skipping and vision spotting as he inhales and inhales and gets nowhere with it. He only just manages to crawl towards the bear, falling against his cold side as he grips his fur.

How could he be so _stupid_.

Ern snuffles against his cheek, and Castiel squeezes his eyes shut. It’s only when he feels his friend biting at the material of his shirt—tugging tugging tugging—that he opens them.

Wolves.

He knows how this works. He’s read about it, and seen it, and understands it. A pack of wolves lines the far tree line, looking at him as if to gauge whether or not this is his kill. They most likely think it is, given the fact that Castiel is covered in dead blood and bleeding himself. For a moment, the star considers claiming this bear and burying him as is respectful in American culture… but that thought is quickly tossed aside.

This bear was killed by humans who did not even care enough to be present at the time of his passing. He will be buried according to human custom to what end—to demonstrate that humans respect him in death? No. Castiel is not of this world, and he will no longer pretend to be. This is the fate that awaits him if he does.

The star wipes his face and stands, as steady and regal as he’s been for millennia. Inclining his head slightly to the wolves, he turns his back and picks up the trap, jumping onto Ern’s back. Let the wolves have their meal, as is right for wolves, and the bear die to fulfill another purpose, as is honourable in this cyclical world.

 _Recycling_.

Ern shoots towards the shack.

 

 

Castiel can hear them before he sees them, which is saying something considering how much noise Ern makes running through the woods. The loudness of everything is overwhelming—the snapping of twigs and hoofbeats against the earth and desperate calls of his name make the star’s chest feel tight and his heart ache and his cheeks flush with righteous anger. The only reason he has not been murdered for sport or caught in a trap in the name of progress is because he managed to entertain two humans. _He_ could be dead on the side of the lake. He perhaps should be, with how wholeheartedly he has embraced ‘the human experience’.

“Cas? Castiel?”

“Castiel!”

Ern explodes through the treeline, skidding on the grass as Castiel hops of his back. He places a brief hand to his shoulder in gratitude before heading towards the house. Predictably, Dean blocks his path. “Cas, what the—holy shit, are you—is that your blood? Cas—” Freckled hands, just as gentle as they are deadly, press against his body to ensure his physical wellbeing. As soon as he knows the blood is not in fact Castiel’s, the star is pushed roughly. “What the _fuck_?!” the male barks, advancing with purpose. “Where the hell where you?!”

Castiel narrows his eyes but says nothing. Humans killed that bear, and they will kill him, too. Violently. Cruelly.

“Answer me, damn it!”

“Dean, leave it.”

“No, Charlie! He can’t just disappear like that—”

“Just—look at him, he’s—”

“Do you have _any fucking idea_ what it was like waking up and having you gone?! I thought you were _dead_! I thought—”

But Castiel doesn’t want to hear how upset or worried Dean was. He doesn’t want to be tricked or trapped by his kindness. He wants to leave; to go to a place where he can be safe and not… confused by his emotions. Can he trust that Dean truly cares about his wellbeing? Or is he pretending in an effort to keep him complacent? With all the smiling and kissing and cuddling—all those things that made his heart sing—he’d forgotten. He is as old as the dirt he walks on and still too green to remember that humanity as a whole is the enemy. Just because they’re nice now does not mean they will remain so. The rest of his existence will be filled with fear of the same trap he holds in his hands. He is at risk of stumbling across something that blindly wishes his end. He may not be going home, but he will not die being tortured. He refuses.

Violently, Cas throws the bear trap at Dean’s feet, brushing past him without even looking for the other’s reaction. He doesn’t care anymore. He can’t afford to.

Castiel storms into the tiny house, grabbing Dean’s backpack and making for the kitchen. He pulls out as much food as can fit inside. His hands are shaking, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell because he’s so upset. And angry. And… and… just— _scared_. He feels as if something fundamental has shrivelled inside of him. Is he that easy to placate? That weak? A smile and some food and shelter and he’s suddenly, what, a cosmic pet ready for the slaughter?

And still, knowing these things, he feels… love and affection and this sense of family and belonging that makes him sick. He is not human. And clearly, he’s not a star—one of his own kind would never have assimilated in the way he has. No star would care for humans in the way he does. Not after Hannah and Muriel and Balthazar and Anna everyone else who has fallen and perished.

He’s a traitor.

A _traitor_.

Castiel sniffles as he roughly wipes his face on the arm of his shirt, slinging the pack over his shoulder. The back door slams open as he exits. His bare feet crunch against the grass, little yellow flowers springing up in his wake, and Dean intercepts him yet again. “Where are you going?” he demands.

“ _Move_.”

“Like hell. Where are you going, huh? You running away? What the hell happened out there?!”

“Let me pass.”

“No.”

Anger bubbles up inside Castiel’s chest as he presses close, chest-to-chest, pushing him up against the wall of the cabin. The star _snarls_ at him. “You would do well to remember what I am, boy. I am not a pet. I am not a project. I am older than the rock beneath your feet. I am more than this paltry existence. I forgot for a moment, but I’ve remembered, now. What you did to me and mine, what you’ll do to me if I allow myself to—”

“To what? Be happy? You’re not making any sense!”

“That bear died alone and tortured, and the human who killed him did not even have the decency to stand by and watch! Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You all move through the world like you own it—like it owes you something because you’ve slaughtered your way to the top of the food chain! You don’t care about creatures who do not provide you with something in return.” He takes a gulping breath. “I _refuse_ to go the way of that bear. I refuse to play puppet to you. You think you care about me? You don’t. As a human, you don’t have the capacity to care for anything but you and yours.”

“Wow. _Wow._ So, what, you see one thing that upsets you and you bolt? Hate to break it to you, Castiel, but that’s _life_. It’s hard. It’s upsetting. It’s shitty. Deal with it.”

“Not mine.”

“ _Yes, yours_! You think you’re going back? You’re stuck here until you die. And yeah, we’re messy and ugly and selfish and cruel, but that’s not everything we are. We change. We learn. We’re _good._ You know that! You know we can be everything stuck in this tiny body not big enough to hold it all! Didn’t you say that? Didn’t you tell me you’d never experienced anything as fucking _lovely_ as just lying in bed—”

“That was a mistake.”

“Yeah, I bet it was. Tell you what, when you’re looking at who’s on the right side of morality, why don’t you go ahead and count the fact that you _used us_.”

“If anybody used someone—”

“Oh _please_. Charlie and I stuck our necks out to take care of you—”

“To keep me complacent!”

“To keep you safe, you fucking idiot! But if you can’t understand that one human’s actions doesn’t define the species then I can’t fucking help you. You want to leave? Fucking go! Get killed and captured and tortured for all I care! In fact, I hope you do!”

“You’re cruel.”

“I am what you want me to be. Fuck off, Castiel.”

Castiel. Not Cas. The star searches green eyes for any trace of the warmth that previously filled them, but an impenetrable coldness is all there is. Dean’s lip is curled and his shoulders are tight and he says, under his breath, viciously: “Hurts, huh?” And Castiel forces himself not to nod. It does hurt. But it also proves what he’s been saying: even Dean, when pushed, is ruthless.

Gritting his teeth, the star turns from Dean to make his way to Ern.

He’s almost there when a hand wraps around his bicep. Castiel is about to whirl around and tell Dean to _fuck off_ , but when he turns to do just that, the words are caught in his throat—it’s Charlie.

Charlie, who looks at him with her big eyes and messy hair and says, quietly. “Please, just wait. Go tomorrow.”

And Castiel’s heart lurches painfully in his chest, and his eyes water, and all these physical manifestations prove that he has lost himself.

So Cas shakes her off and mounts Ern’s back.

“Hey, Castiel.”

Castiel doesn’t turn at the sound of Dean’s voice, mostly because he doesn’t recognize it. Because it sounds devoid of… everything. Meant to hurt. “If you come back looking for help, you can bet your ass I’m handing you to the CIA fucking gift-wrapped.”

Cas tenses at this but says, calmly. Coldly. “So much for your supposed human kindness.”

“Dean, c’mon—”

“No, Charlie. It doesn’t get human kindness. It’s not fucking human.”

 

 

Castiel is ill.

He’s lethargic, and exhausted, and filthy, and spends all his time hidden in a copse of trees he’d bended himself. He’s not hungry, and when he isn’t sleeping he’s crying. His chest hurts in some abstract, sharp way he can’t describe nor understand—it’s been twenty-five hours, six minutes, and fifteen seconds since he left Dean and Charlie, and his only explanation for why this hopeless feeling hasn’t dissipated is a physical ailment. Nothing else makes sense.

It started to rain about an hour ago, and the earth is turning damp beneath him. Stray drops leak through the holes in his makeshift shelter, hitting his forehead and running down his nose. Ern is nearby somewhere, but he’s done a good job of leaving Cas to his misery.

 _It doesn’t get human kindness_.

Castiel cannot stop thinking about yesterday night.

_To keep you safe, you fucking idiot!_

_I am what you want me to be._

_We change. We learn. We’re_ good.

“ARGH!” The star pounds his fist into the ground, leaving behind a depression four inches deep. He is not the one in the wrong, here. He’s only… he’s only protecting himself. Dean can think whatever he wants, but he is a child against Cas’s experience with humanity. He knows what’s in their hearts. What they are, truly. They’re monsters.

_You’re not dangerous. Just lost._

_God, I am so fucked._

_I’m good. I’m great._

But sometimes, that’s hard to remember. Hard to reconcile, especially, with the way Dean had made him shine again, on the inside. With how Charlie had painstakingly showed him the human experience without asking anything of him in return. The entire thing was a trick—Castiel knows it has to be, but… that’s hard to remember. Especially now, when he’s cold and wet and tired and wants contact. He wants to be held and kissed and told everything will be alright.

_You’ll be alright, Castiel._

He wishes Charlie were here.

No, not Charlie—Hannah. Or Muriel. Anna. One of his _own_ people. Not Charlie and her books and Dean and his cuddling. He doesn’t actually want anything human—not really. His desire for contact and comfort is based solely upon his brainwashing. Because he _was_ brainwashed, in one way or another. What do you call seducing him with shelter and food? Feeding him only the best parts of humanity and letting the rest fall by the wayside? Teaching him as if to keep him forever?

…Was that kindness?

He’d been all alone, after all. And they’d done nothing but try and make him happy and comfortable. He was never coerced—at least, he doesn’t think so. It would perhaps have been easier if he was. If he had something solid to fight against. Even the times he was forced to stay inside the house were for his own protection against those who wished him harm. Though that in particular seems cruel, now, when he’s been outside for a whole day and has not seen hide nor hair of another creature, human or otherwise.

Everything is scared of him, now.

Well, everything but the greenery.

Castiel groans, falling back on the branches that continue to grow towards him. He’s worked himself into such a state, he doesn’t even know why he’s angry. Perhaps he was too quick to blame? But this is his _life_! No matter what, he has a duty to hold humanity accountable for their actions against his kin. And he knows them. That this knowledge is clouded with Charlie’s kindness and Dean’s thoughtfulness is… is…

_So, what, you see one thing that upsets you and you bolt?_

Cas is exhausted. He feels sick. He wants to stop crying and simultaneously never stop. There is a hole in his chest he can’t see but grows hourly, and he doesn’t know what will happen when it consumes him entirely.

He doesn’t know what to think, anymore.

…It’s possible, in some ways, that maybe he was wrong. It’s possible that humanity exists in shades and not polarizing colour. Even still, he’s owed an apology at the very least. It’s not about finding one thing upsetting—it’s about a pattern that has played itself out over centuries. It’s about arrogance and the refusal to change. What would Dean and Charlie think of him, if they did not know him? Would they wish him dead, too? …Or would they fight for his freedom?

Cas scoffs. Conjecture is useless; they know him and he’s never going back. He’s not welcome there.

Dean made that perfectly clear.

 

 

It’s been three days and Castiel is weak. Ern has helped to keep him fed and watered as much as an elk can help a person, but he has his own life that needs tending to. So Castiel sleeps and goes for short walks and tries to keep himself entertained, and when he hears movement in the woods, he can’t stop himself from smiling, because that is not a squirrel but a human, moving carefully… hunting, maybe.

And Dean is the only hunter left in these woods.

Castiel feels his shoulders tense at the mere thought of another hostile encounter, but forces himself calm. He’s been thinking a lot—endlessly, in fact, and has come to the conclusion that perhaps both parties behaved badly. That as much as he wants to yell and scream in anger, and beg to be taken back, and a tangle of other complicated emotions, what they really need, maybe, is to talk. Properly. About everything.

Hearing Dean’s path through the woods, Castiel takes a deep breath. Any moment, now, he’ll step into the clearing. He’ll be freckled and wearing a sweater that will match the slowly turning foliage, and after they apologize, Dean will sweep him into his arms to hug him and—Ern?

Ern shoots towards at what can only be described as a gallop. There is a loud _crack_ , and by the time he reaches him, the elk has stumbled and is wheezing, bloody, at his feet. It happens so fast, Castiel is numb to it: to the sudden movement in the woods, to the hot red dripping down Ern’s fur to drip on his toes, to the prick of his neck. All at once, he feels weightless. His eyes slip shut. His palms extinguish.

And he falls to the forest floor like a ragdoll.

 

 

There is nothing to remember of the journey because he spends the entirety of it injected with something that makes him sleep… but where he wakes is unremarkable and therefore unmistakeable.

He is in a box with no windows.

It’s cold, and the pressure has changed ever so slightly, which means he’s underground. The material is smooth and frigid against his chilled skin. Hard, too, enough to make him ache. Castiel head feels fuzzy at the same time as it throbs painfully, his arms weak when he tries to push himself up. When he swallows, his Adam’s apple presses against something metal.

Hands flying up to his neck, he feels a heavy ring of the stuff tight on his skin. An alloy, by the feel of it, made of… of bits and pieces of nothing he can recognize. Nothing he can break. The fact that he’s so constricted makes him panic, hands scrabbling around his neck until the thing delivers an electric shock that zings through his veins to set fire to his limbs. His vision goes in a moment of obliterating pain, before the star finds himself gasping into the floor, weak and shaking.

There is movement from nearby.

The box has no door; one of its walls slides to the left for the thing to open, revealing that he is in a larger metal cage in a cavernous room. On the other side of the cage stand five humans. Three of them appear to be soldiers by the way they hold themselves and stick crackling with electricity they hold. But the others… Castiel doesn’t know what they are.

Doctors, maybe, judging by the white coats they wear.

Regardless, Cas is sorely tempted to rip all five humans limb from limb for daring to abduct him. He keeps still, however, which isn’t hard due to how incredibly weak he feels. The humans unlock the cage with some piece of technology requiring… a fingerprint? Before entering.

“It’s subdued?” One of the White Coats asks. A woman.

“As much as it’ll ever be,” a man, similarly dressed, replies from her right. There’s something about him…

The woman’s hair is tied in a tight bun very different to how Charlie keeps hers. She purses her lips at him, and her scrutiny is what makes him aware he’s wearing thin—scrubs? Scrubs. In a pale blue, already filthy from his being on the floor. Keeping her distance, the woman crouches down and narrows her eyes. “He’s humanoid. What traits did you say were dangerous?”

“Preliminary scans show it could provide energy to the world for years.”

“But there’s no guarantee that that energy can be harnessed,” another White Coat chips in. Female. Short. Bored-sounding.

“What the fuck do we care about harnessing energy?” That’s one of the soldiers. “This thing could destroy the planet.”

“You’d do well to know your place, private. The only reason you’re here is because your boss gives great head.” The tall woman, again. She stands again, holding a hand out and accepting a large file from one of the other White Coats. “And we’re certain this will hold him.”

“This is my life’s work, Naomi,” the shorter female says. “It’ll hold.”

“Good. I want you and Billie keeping tabs on it at all times. Alastair, you’ll be given free rein to do what you must within the UDHR. The last thing we need is the UN on our asses.”

“Naomi, with—ah, _all_ due respect—”

The one in charge—Naomi—rolls her eyes. “Until this thing is a proven threat, we treat it kindly, understood? We don’t want intergalactic warfare when we can barely get off the goddamn ground. After it hurts one of us, well… do whatever you need to get the data. The asset is only as valuable as it is useful, and no one will give a shit about some battered alien when we’ve solved climate change.”

“If you don’t mind me saying—”

“I could give two shits about what disturbing thoughts are preoccupying your peanut-sized brain, Alastair. This is no longer your project, and you are no longer calling the shots. This is how we proceed. If you have an issue with that, don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

For one moment, Alastair appears murderous, but that expression is quickly subdued for a greasy smile. “Mmhm mmhm. I just—one moment, if you’ll allow. I think the… gentlemen, here, would like something to bring back to their boss, hmm?” Alastair’s voice is slimy and slick, and he walks just as fluidly. Like he’s not really touching the ground, but sliding on the filth atop it. Naomi raises an unimpressed brow, jaw clenching in clear frustration and anger, but allows him to walk forward. “You have thirty seconds.”

“Only need ten, dollface.”

He steps forward, and Castiel’s eyes widen.

_What a gorgeous little thing you are._

_There we go, you like that don’t you?_

_Honey, I’m home!_

Castiel is going to be sick. He is going to be _sick_ . His eye turn wide as the male approaches, caught between scrambling backwards and launching himself forward to _destroy_. This man—this is the man who harmed Hannah. This is, somehow, the man who accused Hannah of witchcraft—the orchestrator of her death, from his inviting her into his cottage, to his learning what she was, to his burning her alive. This is the _piece of shit_ who killed his sister.

He’s here.

Castiel sees red. White-hot fury rips through his being, turning blue and bright as it quickly extinguishes at his palm, the act sending a shock of pain right to the root of his spine. The male grins, slow, like he’s amused, but doesn’t say anything. Cas barely has time to panic about why he can no longer access his own power. Instead, struggling to his feet, the star throws himself forward, scratching at the male’s cheek before delivering an almighty punch to his face. He manages to land two more blows, the last to his stomach with such force that ribs crack and _Alastair_ is hurtled across the floor.

That’s when the soldiers descend upon him.

All it takes is a particularly hard jab of a long, charged black stick to his side and he’s a groaning, angry mess on the floor. When he tries to get up, he gets jabbed again. And then again and again and again until he can’t move and his vision is spotting and red dots the corners of his mouth. From his place halfway across the floor, Alastair meets his eyes and smiles bloody.

“Think he broke my ribs, boss,” he pants through a smirk.

Naomi is livid.

 

 

When Castiel next wakes, he is in the same room. Cold. Exhausted. His body is so sore it hurts to breathe, let alone move… though even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to: his hands and feet are cuffed to each other and the floor using the same alloy as the collar around his neck— _like a dog_ , his mind helpfully supplies—and he doubts he’ll be able to break them. He forces himself upright, coughing and grimacing at the dryness of his mouth and its metallic after-taste when there is a voice from behind him:

“Like them? I kept trying to convince Naomi to put them on you when you got here, but… well, no one listened to me. Unfortunately that’s the norm around here, but I feel like you’re my good luck charm. What d’you think?”

“ _You_ ,” Castiel hisses through his raw throat, anger igniting a blaze inside of him that has his palms—“AH!”

Alastair smirks, carefully stepping over one of Castiel’s knees before crouching down before him. His face is swollen and bruised, lip split and scabbing over. There are white bandages wrapped around his chest. He pets a hand gently through dark hair and Cas jerks back, chains rattling as energy rushes to his palms and he’s shocked there for the second time. The painful zing has the star accidentally bite down on his lip, tears springing to his eyes. His hands curl into fists, coming up to subconsciously touch the collar. He can’t use his power. He’s—helpless. They took his greatest defense _away from him_ and are punishing any residual energy they can’t immediately snuff out.

Alastair cocks his head to the side, smirk widening. “Clever boy. Did you say something?”

Castiel’s lip curls in a snarl. “ _You_ ,” he says again, dark. Murderous.

“Me,” the male confirms quietly. “I wonder, Starshine… have we met?” He punctuates his sentence with a large, toothy grin. Looking at him more closely, Cas can see how, perhaps, this isn’t the same man who murdered his sister. His eyes are too close together, his nose slightly narrower. The likeness is incredible, however, and in an attempt to communicate his disgust, Castiel spits on his face. The star watches with a satisfied smirk of his own as pink saliva drips down his cheek to the corner of his mouth.

And is immediately disgusted when Alastair’s tongue swipes out to catch it. “Guess you knew my daddy’s special friend, hmm? Ahhhh, he _loved_ her. Told me all about it when I was a boy—lived through almost seven centuries on that ticker of hers. Fucked a lot of women. Had a lot of kids. Croaked when my mom was a twenty-three year-old high school dropout in Ohio. I was seven. Always liked me the best. Said we were the same.” Licking his split lips, he traces the line of Castiel’s jaw like he’s aroused by the thought of it breaking. “Mmm, he wanted another star so bad.”

Cas finds he has no more room to move away.

“Didn’t get one, but he, ahhh, left all his notes to me. Wanted to give me a shot. Wrote all about the things he did to her. About everything he learned. And then… he ate her heart.” He sighs, here, dreamily. “It was pretty cooked by the time he got to it—witch burnings, you know how it is. Murder is wrong, but she wasn’t human—eyes too blue, general air too alien, just… not right. Wasn’t hard to convince people she was fucking the devil.” He chuckles. “Guess she kinda was, anyway.”

Castiel is jaw is clenches so hard he’s convinced his teeth will break.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Starshine? You look distressed.” Castiel remains silent. “I’m almost done anyway,” the male assures him. “Just, ahhh, thought we should get to know each other a little bit. See, I know everything there is to know about you. Dear old Daddy wrote down everything—but he was a genius out of time, you understand. Didn’t have the resources to hold you or the mute bitch he caught in that shitty 13th Century shack of his. The fact that he got her at all was a miracle. But me? I’m a genius _in time_. And I’ll have your heart if it kills me.” He claps his hands. “But before we get to the fun part, we’re gonna have to do some work. Think of it like… a real thorough physical, hmm? Very tasteful. Very professional. But fun. We like having fun around here. Tell me, can you sing, Starshine?”

_Can’t even scream, can you? ‘Cause you love it. I know you do._

Castiel glares.

“Well, that’ll be the first thing we’ll find out.”

As he’s walking to the door, Castiel forces himself to move, darting forward to grab Alastair’s ankle and _pull_ with all the strength left in him. The male hits the ground with a yelp, dragged back as Cas wraps his chains around the human’s soft throat. “I will end you,” he vows, quietly into Alastair’s ear. “I will cleave the meat from your bones and sew you back together only to burn you to ashes. I will take you apart piece by piece until there is nothing left but an empty husk. I was forged in the Beginning, in the chaos of a newly conceived Universe—I am born of violence and hunger and hardship… and I will _destroy_ you.”

Amid the sounds of choking, surprise flickers in dull grey eyes, a brief flicker amid the amusement and death living behind his irises. Castiel feels a surge of pride. Let him be surprised that he has learned to speak. In fact, let him be surprised at every turn; Cas has learnt things in his time on Earth that will make him more dangerous than this murderer can ever imagine.

Alastair is turning bright red by the time the soldiers come in to shock him unconscious. They pull at him and jab and hit until the male is dragged away, coughing and laughing madly.

Castiel’s head hits the floor with a _thunk_.

 

 

There are no weaknesses in the walls.

Cas knows this because he has nothing to do but sit and atrophy, and he can feel nothing. No life of any kind. The walls must be incredibly thick.

He thinks it’s three days before Alastair visits him again based on the fact that he receives six meals that look like formless grey goop and taste twice as disgusting. He is spoon-fed by one of the soldiers who jabs the utensil into his mouth so hard his gums bleed and his teeth ache.  

Alastair, when he does deign to gift Cas his presence, does so with all the arrogance of a king. He stalks up to the star’s prone form and crouches down, grinning when Castiel watches him with a glare. “Morning, Starshine!” he chirps, clearly waiting for a response. When it’s clear Cas will not give him one, the male sighs. “No so talkative today, huh? That’s okay. I like singing better, anyway.”

Cas glares, and Alastair’s grin only widens.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

  


 

 

 

**DAY THREE HUNDRED SEVENTY-NINE**

 

_"Perhaps, as some wit remarked, the best proof that there is Intelligent Life in Outer Space                                                                                                          is the fact it hasn't come here. Well, it can't hide forever - one day we will overhear it.”_

                                                                                                                     — Arthur C. Clarke

 

 ****WARNING FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT AND GRAPHIC VIOLENCE (TORTURE):** If you wish to skip the assault, stop reading from: "Alastair is like a caged animal..." and pick it up after the first divider (basil). If you wish to skip the entire scene, just start reading after the basil.

 

 

Singing is a euphemism for screaming.

Castiel knows this because he was asked to sing, over and over and over again, while being poked and prodded and hurt. Alastair took him to a white room and strapped him down to a shiny metal table. He took parts of him, roughly—stole so much of his blue-tinged blood he saw dark spots swim in his vision, peeled a patch of skin from his knee in the name of progress. He ripped out a clump of his hair apparently to test his DNA (deoxyribonucleic acid), but Castiel isn’t stupid. He has plenty of it from all the other torture he’s been subjected to.

Still, Castiel stays silent.

He does not speak. He barely breathes. And he certainly, under any circumstances, _does not scream_. He does this for four agonizing days, until Alastair tries another tactic.

“How’s it going Sleeping Beauty? Wakey wakey!”

Apparently, they want his brain.

No, not literally, Alastair assures him with a sick grin. The ladies will take him for a few scans and then they’ll be… delving a little deeper. Castiel keeps his gaze forward, unreactive. He allows his chains to be undone, and refuses Alastair’s awful, disgusting touch to help him up. He’s shockingly weak at this point, swaying to and fro on legs thin and weak with atrophied muscle. Still, he walks to his scans and then back to the white room, head held high. Proud.

Alastair beams.

“Good to see you haven’t lost that spitfire attitude, Starshine.” He turns to the soldiers. “Strap him to the throne.”

The throne is a minimally padded white chair. It is large, and has many restraints, and when Castiel is thoroughly ‘strapped in’, he understands why. The entire point of this chair is to be crowned. And to be crowned is to have this metal crown of a contraption… screwed into your skull. Apparently, the wires attached relay information about the synapses in his brain to the computer, which is useful for some reason Cas can’t understand. Though Alastair cites wanting to understand his _hard drive_ more thoroughly, the star recognizes it as yet another attempt by an increasingly desperate man.

He is crowned every day for a week and does not utter a sound.

He’s currently splayed out in his cell. He doesn’t understand why he’s retrained anymore, because he barely has the strength to move, let alone sit or stand, but apparently Alastair is paranoid. Apparently, Castiel has ‘given him a run for his money’, as Dean would say.

Dean.

Sometimes, Cas hears him.

When he’s drooling and the holes in his head make his brain itch and ring, when he can feel it throb hot and cold and wet against his temples and red leaks out through his eyes, that’s when he sees him. And Charlie. In point of fact, it seems that his entire non-existent family lived in his brain the whole time, and needed only a violent kind of nudge to come out and talk with him. He talks back, sometimes, when his tongue doesn’t feel too unwieldy in his mouth. Sometimes he tells Dean he loves him, but mostly he apologizes to Hannah. His speech sounds slurred and strange to his ears.

Most often, everyone just stands around him and stares.

Today is not one of those days, but it is another crowning, and something is different.

Alastair is like a caged animal.

He shoves the crown upon Cas’s head, ignoring the way he tenses up to be even more rough with him. He is especially vicious today, changing the position of the prongs and pushing them, slowly, past bone until they slide in as if against butter.

“Come on, sweetheart, give it up for me,” he murmurs, low and dark and desperate, and Castiel forces himself into the mindset of this daily dance. He is going to vomit if he doesn’t faint first. His hands shake with the effort of keeping quiet, tears spilling onto his cheeks as the screws in yet another prong. Castiel bites through his lip and forces himself to look straight ahead. It slices through his frontal lobe and the star barely catches the yelp as it leaves him. Alastair smiles. “Good. Almost there, darling.” In a movement that is beyond soft and tender, he thumbs some of the blood from Castiel’s skin, sucking it into his mouth with a hum. The action so resembles Dean, Cas whimpers.

“Mm, there we go. Let it out, baby. Sing a little. Give up those pretty cries for me.”

Castiel holds his breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Aw, no. See, baby, that doesn’t work for me.” He’s rough, then, hand squeezing Castiel’s jaw until his mouth is forced to open. “You’re gonna sing for me,” he grunts, slapping at the device screwed into Castiel’s head. Every touch sends blinding pain through his body, causing his stomach to roil and his vision to spot. And still, he forces himself quiet, as steady as he’s been for millennia before.

Alastair hits him until his vision black out completely.

Castiel wakes freezing and wet, still tied to the throne, his torturer holding an empty bucket.

“Welcome back,” the human greets with that nasal voice. Castiel barely inclines his head in acknowledgement. The movement makes Alastair smile, humming out a long, pleased note as he steps forward.

“I’m sorry for… losing my temper,” he says sweetly, the picture of repentance as he walks with his head bowed. Castiel tries not to betray how his heart rate elevates the nearer he draws. He bends, thumbing at Castiel’s jawline and it takes everything not to flinch. “I was thinking we should, ummm, change tactics,” he says generously. “After all, we’re going to be here for a while. I’d just like to get to know you. That’s all. I’m not a bad guy, I swear.”

He straddles Castiel’s lap.

It is impossible to control the way his breathing quickens and his eyes widen at the gross invasion of his space, of the bulge between his legs betraying Alastair’s pleasure at the situation. An awful smile slashes its way across the other’s mouth. “Good,” he breathes. His fingers move across the crown like the caress of a lover. “Beautiful.”

Castiel tries to grasp at steadiness, but the violation is such that he can feel every shift and breath his captor makes. He clenches his jaw instead, and Alastair’s grin widens. He drapes his arms about Cas’s shoulders. “So,” he says. “Let’s talk about _Dean_.”

Castiel’s heart leaps in fear, banging _hard_ against his ribs. Alastair gives a lewd groan in response, quickly digging under Cas’s shirt to press palms flush to his chest. “Oh baby,” he breathes, “that was _delicious_.” He nuzzles against the collar on Cas’s neck and the star feels his skin crawl. Still, he remains completely still. Alastair is clearly amused. “So what’s the deal? He fuck you? M’sure he did… all that raw power, who wouldn’t wanna get inside that, huh? _Yum._ ” He pauses. “Or maybe he wanted you to take the lead, maybe he’s the kinda bitch that likes taking it up the ass from a fucking alien.” Alastair chuckles.

Castiel is going to vomit. His nipple is being thumbed and he is going to be sick—

“All this stops when you sing, starshine,” he breathes, nipping at the lobe of Cas’s ear. “All you gotta do is sing for me real nice.”

Castiel is silent.

Grey eyes narrow. “The strong silent routine was cute at the beginning, but enough, Castiel.”

Cas’s own eyes widen in horror at being called his own name, his heart racing in panic and fear as Alastair smiles serenely. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know your name?” he asks. “We stuck around after taking you; paid a little visit to your friends. Wasn't hard to find them, they were so  _loud_ —” Castiel growls, leaning forward with the intent to bite. He's cut off with a hard slap to his cheek. “Let me make this very _very_ clear to you," Alastair says. "I am in charge here. Not Billie, not Meg, not those two idiots with guns or that cunt, Naomi. Resistance is cute, but futile. I have been waiting a very long time for you, and I will not be denied. It will get more painful, and more invasive, and more violent. If you do not give me what I want, I will _take it_ , do you understand?” He punctuates his sentence with a punch to Castiel’s stomach that has the star reeling forward against his bonds.

Castiel is gasping for air, Alastair smiling against the side of his face as they lean on one another. To add insult to injury, he viciously stabs one of the prongs further into his brain. The combination has Castiel caught unawares and screaming before he can gather himself. It’s a pain so searing and hot it’s cold, locking up his spine and burning down to his toes. The lights flicker. A glass breaks. The Earth shakes. The piece of metal continues to be shoved until the moment Alastair deems it appropriate to stop—right before Castiel’s vision is swallowed completely, his head lolling to the side and muscles made liquid against the throne.

…And Alastair continues to sit on his lap, breathing heavy as he smacks Cas’s face to keep him alert. He forces eye contact, and his irises are almost swallowed by the black of his pupils. His mouth is red and wet as if from biting his lips. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, soft and satisfied. “You sure know how to please a man, don’t you, starshine?” He grabs Castiel’s face and pushes their mouths together in a hard, awful kiss. Though Castiel fights against it, it’s nothing to hold his weakened body in place. “Look at what you did to me, baby.”

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut.

“ _Look_ , or I’ll sew your eyes shut and you can lick me clean, instead.”

There is a large wet spot on Alastair’s pants.

“Do not forget who owns you, Castiel. You are my pet, and you will do as I say until such time I decide your heart is of more use to me.” He smiles. “And chin up, your work here will better the human race, isn’t that nice?”

Castiel vomits.

 

 

The asset hasn’t said a word for days beyond screaming on demand. He’s been broken, thoroughly and irrevocably, and where Billie was all for ensuring a balanced power dynamic between this… alien and the human race, she’s not so sure anymore.

She’s a scientist, not a torturer.

“This isn’t right.”

“What’s right and wrong anymore these days,” Meg says loftily, crossing her feet on top of the desk. As per usual, they’ve been relegated to the security cameras. Whatever Alastair has on Naomi must be career-obliterating if she’s letting him run the operation like this.  “We’ve got an orange fucko in the White House and kids are being locked in cages. One sick basket case playing out his fantasies with a deadly alien seems tame in comparison.”

Billie frowns. “I… don’t think he’s dangerous.”

“Are you kidding me? He’s got the strength of ten bionic people, a goddamn molten centre, and he attacked Alastair for no reason! I mean, yeah, the guy is a Grade-A creep, but—”

“No,” Billie says. She reaches into her pocket for the ghost drive, plugging it into the computer as she shakes her head. “I’ve been looking over the original recording… it looks like he recognizes him.”

“Well lookit you, being a rebel.”

“I’m serious. Right there, before he attacks.”

Meg leans forward, squinting. Billie knows it’s a long shot, especially with Meg, but the wideness of the asset’s eyes coupled with the tensing of his body could most definitely be interpreted as surprise at knowing Alastair already. When she lays back in her chair, she shrugs, but there’s something different in her body language. Something unsettled. “Look, even if he did recognize him—which makes no sense, by the way—it’s still dangerous. You’ve looked at it with infrared before; it’s a walking bomb.”

“Still doesn’t feel right.”

“Cry me a river.”

The door clicking shut is the only signal of Billie’s departure, and Meg rolls her eyes. This job doesn’t have room for morality. Thinking about it will only drive you crazy.

 

 

Castiel learns very quickly that his physical body is limited. He has a threshold for how much pain he can endure before falling unconscious, and how much they can starve him before he can see his ribs, and how little he needs to move for his musculature to waste away to nothing. It’s been days or weeks or months since his first crowning and in that time Cas has learnt it’s better to sing on demand rather than be subjected to violations that accompany his insolence, that it’s better to cry and beg and tell him whatever he wants to hear because the alternative usually ends uglier than what he’d asked in the first place. When Castiel weakly fought Alastair’s attempt to get a semen sample, the scientist spent an entire afternoon with a hand between his legs in the name of scientific discovery.

Castiel’s hair is long and three of his fingers are crooked. He’s missing a tooth. His skin is burned and puckered in places from being shocked bloody. He wonders what Dean would think, if he saw him, now. If he’d still call him _gorgeous_.

Probably not.

There’s a _crack_ and a _boom_ Castiel has become intimately familiar with, but instead of Alastair or the soldiers, it’s one of the women. Not Naomi—one of the others. The one with pale skin and dark hair. She has a bucket.

She’s muttering herself, rolling her eyes when she sees him but is still careful to keep her distance. Castiel doesn’t understand why—he’s about as strong as a daisy right now. Still, she mutters more darkly and pushes herself to walk with purpose, until she’s kneeling beside him and plunging a glove-covered hand into the bucket, emerging with a soapy sponge. She pauses when Cas flinches before the thing touches his skin, curling into himself. He hisses in pain when it makes contact with his open wounds.

This just barely gives her pause, but it does stop her for half a moment, looking at him curiously before continuing in her duty. “Fuckin’ Alastair,” she mutters. “I’m not a fuckin’ maidservant. I have three goddamn PhDs. Three. But _he’s_ too busy makin’ himself pretty for tonight to tend to his fuckin’ pet.”

She cleans his legs and what’s between them, moving up his torso and neck until she gets to his face. Wholly damp at this point, the legs of her pants soaked through, she goes over his chin. When she hits a particularly painful bruise and Cas whimpers, readying himself for it to happen again as she scrubs him clean. But… it never comes.

She is biting her lip, looking at him like she doesn’t quite know what to make of him. Narrowing her eyes, she pulls the gag Castiel has been recently forced to wear— _don’t want you wearing out that pretty voice, do we_ —before moving to press rubber-clad fingers to his cheek. The way her arm and hand are placed are nearly identical to the way Alastair usually slaps him, and Cas flinches _hard_ in preparation to receive the blow.

Instead, she carefully brushes against his poorly shaved face.

“Not a biter after all, huh?” she jokes, but her shoulders are tense and her jaw is tight. Her fingers trip up his jaw to touch his forehead and down his nose until she removes the glove to press the warmth of her whole hand to his cheek. He trembles the whole time. “Shit,” she says, morosely.

She’s more gentle with him after that.

 

 

Meg thinks this whole thing is stupid. She thinks aliens are stupid, and Naomi is stupid, and after giving a goddamn sponge bath to the asset she _knows_ he’s stupid. Everyone is stupid. Billie? Billie is especially stupid. Billie hasn’t said anything, but Meg knows she’s been snooping around to try and figure out a way to free a multi-billion dollar alien with a nuclear reactor for a fucking heart… even though she must have known, when she took this job, that it was a dark grey moral area. Sci-fi movies don’t lie.

Unfortunately, Meg thinks as she kicks open the door to the surveillance room, she, Meg, daughter to Ted and Bonnie, is the dumbest bitch in here. Because she knows what the stakes are, she knows what the consequences’ll be, she knew _exactly what she was getting herself into_ when she took the gig because she really likes sci-fi—

“Fine, I’m in.”

—And she’s doing it anyway.

 

 

They choose to do it while the suits are visiting from DC. It’s easy to sneak around with Alastair occupied and the military personnel focused on keeping all the VIPs safe. So while everyone is falling over themselves to kiss Mattis’s ass and fondle his balls, Meg and Billie loop the cameras and take a walk. Outside.

With a drill.

“You know this is suicide, right? The second we do this he’s gonna bring down the entire building. He probably won’t make it, and if _we_ do, we’re gonna have to move to Canada.”

“Better leadership over there, anyway,” Billie says, swiping her card to get into the elevator.

“Not without its problems,” Meg retorts, pressing the ‘L’ button. The doors close. “Jesus, I don’t think I’ve breathed fresh air in months. Don’t even remember what the sun feels like.”

“Hot. And he’ll make it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I know I’m not letting him die a prisoner. He brings it down, and dies? Fine. He’ll be free doing it.”

“And balance will be restored,” Meg says loftily.

“Something like that.”

They set up under a logging factory, so the scent of sawdust immediately greets them upon the elevator doors opening. Meg breathes in deep and coughs, and Billie rolls her eyes. “Come on.”

“Jesus, what’s the rush, Mary Morality?”

“We don’t have time for this, Meg.”

“Alastair’s been looking forward to this circle jerk for weeks. He’ll keep them occupied.”

Nobody gives them a second look as they walk through the factory to one of the tiny sheds on the end of the property. Their cards work only because Meg is in asset containment, and from there it’s easy to walk down the ten flights of stairs and down the mile-long hallway to where it opens up.

Meg’s design is foolproof, she knows: a cage made of inconel in a concrete box ten-feet thick with sensors dotting the outer surfaces. There’s a buffer around the entire unit in order to run checks on and fix any broken sensors, as well as to facilitate any repairs to the wall itself. The entire thing would almost have the illusion of floating, if it weren’t for the inconel beams fitted exactly to the outer walls. Looking at the opposite slab of concrete—the one that surrounds the buffer but is only two-feet wide, flush against the dirt, Meg’s eyes widen.

“Holy fucknuggets.”

Plants have breached the outer wall.

There are roots and vines, sickly looking things but growing nonetheless, which have grown through the outer wall and across the beams. Though none have breached the containment unit yet, it’s clear that’s the next step.

“There. That looks like our best bet.”

Squinting, Meg looks to where Billie’s pointing: almost a mile above their heads, there is a particularly thick root clinging to the smooth concrete. She smirks.

“Heaven better be full of frisky women.”

 

 

Castiel is terrified by the fresh cuffs and clothes and bandages, his panic deepened by the fact that his hair was cut and his face shaved. He is helped to standing and gently guided out to his box to stand beside it as the thing grinds closed behind him.

And then they wait.

Cas’s legs are trembling with the effort from standing by the time he hears voices from around the corner. His knees buckle, he’s held up by the back of his shirt, his heart pounds. Who knows what they’re going to do with him, what they’ll do _to_ him—

“And here he is,” Naomi says grandly. “As you can see, our team is highly professional in their treatment of the asset. It’s been getting three square meals, we regularly clean it, and its cell is outfitted with a bed and toilet facilities.”

Castiel wonders if _toilet facilities_ mean the bucket he’s too chained up to access.

Alastair, Naomi, the soldiers, and three other men stand in a group before him. The man who Naomi is talking to—with a navy blue jacket and the most pins and colours on his lapel, raises a brow. “Sounds like it’s living in the goddamn Ritz. No problems with containment breaches?”

“None,” Naomi assures him. “Our specialists are the best in their field.”

“Uh huh.” The man is old, and the downward turn of his mouth is hateful when he says, very simply: “You know I don’t give a shit whether it lives or dies.”

Naomi stiffens. “I understand, sir, but the United Nations—”

“Those fuckin’ hippie-dippy whackjobs don’t know about this branch of government, let alone this project, and until we know how far this project is going to take us, it’s gonna stay that way. Besides, there are no provisions for alien life, the UDHR is for _humans_. You do what you have to do to make it work, you hear?”

“Yes, sir. That’s exactly what we’ve been doing.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve been spending government money needlessly. What the fuck’s it need a toilet for? There are no toilets in Guantanamo, and that’s for _people_.”

Castiel’s eyes flick to Alastair, his skin crawling at the wide grin he finds on the other’s mouth. “If I may,” the scientist interrupts. “I believe testing could only benefit from an _increase_ in funding.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Alastair, sir.”

“No last name?”

“Not that you’d be interested in knowing.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to?”

“Yes. And I think you’ll be very happy to know that Starshine here gets two meals of whatever the dogs won’t eat, he’s normally chained within an inch of his life, and this is the first time he’s been washed in two months, presuming he washed right before he came here. He’s weak, he’s broken, and he can barely stand without help. Right boys?”

The soldier who’d been holding his shirt lets go, and Cas crumples to the floor.

The man with the jacket whistles. “Well I’ll be. You been taking a lead on this?”

“With my permission,” Naomi pipes in.

Alastair’s smirk widens further.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Defense Secretary, I would love to show you just how thorough my work has been.” When _Mr. Defense Secretary_ nods, the scientist turns to Cas. “Castiel, to me.”

Cas doesn’t want to obey the order. He wants to spit at Alastair’s feet and refuse to stand. But interspersed with these desires are also very real sense-memories of unbearable pain and violence, so the star forces himself to stand on wobbling legs, and stumbles over. His skin crawls when Alastair’s hand brushes the small of his back, and he closes his eyes to the impressed faces staring at them.

“Castiel?” Someone asks.

“Its name. It is an… incredibly intelligent life form. Speech is no issue. Say hello, Castiel.”

Cas squeezes his already shut eyes. “Hello.”

“Very impressive.” That is Mr. Defense Secretary. “What about the collar?”

“Just a protective measure,” Alastair explains. “It kills his powers—Castiel here is a vessel of pure, unfiltered energy. He has the equivalent of the heart of a young star burning inside him, and he likes to use that power to hurt people. Broke my ribs and nose within the first two days he arrived. Believe me, you don’t want this thing let loose upon the world.”

“He looks totally normal,” another one of the men says. “It’s freaky.”

“All but the eyes,” Alastair says. “Open them, Castiel.” Blue eyes flutter open. “They’re normally much brighter, but I believe their dullness is a result of its pitiful physical state. The less healthy he is, the more normal he looks.”

“Well, you definitely seem to have it under control.”

“I’m good at training wild animals.” Alastair smiles then, taking Cas’s chin in hand and saying in that high, condescending voice: “Isn’t that right, Castiel?”

Cas forces himself to nod.

Mr. Defense Secretary grins. “I’m impressed. You think it can be trained to take orders in battle?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Huh. Well, you keep this up, and I think we can spare a couple million for the cause. Off the record, ‘course. Nukes’d be a thing of the past with this freak on our side.”

“Consider it done.”

“Good man.” He turns to Naomi. “You’ve got a great team, here, darlin’. Let it do its thing.” He pats her on the shoulder, and Castiel is reasonably certain she’s contemplating murder… but when the newcomers turn to leave, she follows without a word. Alastair sends the soldiers with them, opening the cell to put Cas back himself. Swallowing thickly, the star keeps himself tense and quiet, trying not to touch him or anger him or draw his attention in any way, shape, or form. He is still when Alastair chains him up, and quiet when he a fistful of his hair, pulling back to expose his throat. He is certain not to let on that bile rises to his throat when a thumb runs along his bottom lip. “Not long now, Starshine.”

 

 

 

 

 

**DAY THREE HUNDRED NINETY-TWO**

 

_“The probability of success is difficult to estimate; but if we never search the chance of success is zero.”_

                                                           — A quote from Giuseppe Cocconi and Philip Morrison’s paper: _‘Searching for Interstellar Communications’                                             that was published in September 1959, one of the first formal rational arguments supporting the search for extraterrestrial intelligence._

 

 

Castiel had been sitting with Charlie one day, lying with his head in her lap, her fingers carding through his hair as she muttered along with the little green alien on the television, concentrated and smiling as Castiel’s eyes fluttered, half-asleep himself.

Tears squeeze out from the corner of Cas’s eyes, his head aching where it presses against the cold, hard floor. What he wouldn’t give to be back in that tiny shack, late-afternoon sun streaming in through the filthy windows to the dusty air look like it was glittering… he can almost smell the mustiness of the main room. He’d hated those films for their inaccuracies and inconsistencies before, but he would sell his soul to watch them again. To murmur along with Charlie: _Do or do not_. _There is no try._

Castiel wonders, briefly, when he stopped trying. He can’t remember amidst the constant agony. He doesn’t think it matters anymore. But, maybe… maybe this is a situation in which trying isn’t enough. In which one needs to _do_ . Maybe, sometimes, the word _try_ can hold a person back, even if they don’t realize it. Even when they think they aren’t holding back at all.

As he is wont to do these days, the star retreats inside himself, far past his ribcage and well into the vastness of his own heart. He is as endless here as he was lightyears away, all power and warmth and blind entropy. This miracle of physics, this contradiction of being, this is what he must protect. This is what he cannot let another person take from him, because it is not theirs to take but his to give, freely, and to whomever he wishes. He is important, not because he is celestial but because he lives here, on this Earth, just as any mortal. Because he is worth doing for.

Castiel throws his consciousness as far out as it will go, past the cage and into the walls, feeling. His wrists start to tingle with the heat of using a minor ability but he presses onwards, barely gritting his teeth. The tingle turns to an itch to a burn, and Cas’s head is pounding as he pushes out and out and _out_ , farther than he’s ever done before, getting the thick and cold of the walls until he finds, finally, what he’s looking for.

Bruised and shaking on the floor, his bloody nose dripping onto his cheek, Cas gives a shaking, relieved smile, and promptly blacks out.

A crack.

 

 

By the time Castiel has gathered enough strength to try again, the crack has widened to a crevice thanks to some very tiny roots. It feels as though these hairline fractures in the walls stem mostly from a larger weakness just beyond. The star is lying down again, eyes closed, when he takes a breath so deep he feels it in his toes. Knowing where to look, it isn’t hard to find the crevice again, to feel its faint and fragile life reaching out towards him. Emptying his mind of everything but that, he exhales slowly.

“There is no try.”

He _pulls_.

The world groans and shudders around him, making spindly cracks and cavernous holes in thick concrete. A precursor to more dangerous rocks, pebbles rain on his head and shoulders. Though human instinct has him itching to duck and cover, the star forces himself steady and still, in a fetal position on the deteriorating floor, bound hands up against his chest. Sweat rolls down his temples, soaking his matted hair. He bites down, brows furrowing as he grunts, stoking the celestial fire that burns inside himself until he’s feverish with it—until he can feel a faint tingling in his fingers despite the collar that mutes his very essence. The metal around his neck _burns_.

Castiel closes his eyes and continues to push. He pushes through each rumble of the earth, encouraging life to find him and break him free. He pushed through the sharp, deafening sounds of an alarm. He pushes through the sound of footsteps running, nearer and nearer and he knows this is it—this is his last chance at escape—if he could only just—

In the fragments of seconds before blue heat fries his neck and collar adorning it, Cas does not think of Hannah. He does not think of Anna, or Muriel, or Alastair. In that half-moment, soul on fire and body screaming in pain, nails etching red half-moons into his own palms and blood dripping down his ear and the corner of his eye—Castiel is in a dilapidated cottage in the middle of nowhere, Montana.

“ _I used to belong to something much greater than myself._ ”

“ _You still do, Cas_.”

For the first time in three-hundred and ninety-two Earth days, Castiel shines.

 

 

There is something crushing his ribs.

Pins and needles dig into his skin, and there are part of his body that he cannot feel. Awareness comes back in patchy flashes, feelings of heat and cold and hurt until blue eyes flutter open to complete and total darkness. It’s hard to breathe, where he is.

This development, when he truly understands it, has him gasping and panicked.

He remembers the otherworldly agony of burning through the collar, the satisfying _clink_ as it hit the floor. The roaring as Castiel had slumped forward, palms flat on the concrete ground and had screamed.

 _HELP_.

The room had exploded.

Roots had pulverized the walls around him, causing large chunks of concrete and debris to fly in every direction. Castiel doesn’t remember much from that particular instance in time—just the alarm and the feeling of being pummelled.

Pummelled.

Cas blinks dazedly, forcing himself to take long, steady breaths as he looks around. He has been buried. It’s difficult to move with the roots and rocks. Having desired as much closeness as possible, the plant matter had grown around every chunk of cement in an unbreakable, tight lattice. It presses against his to the point of blood and bruising, wood digging into his skin as if to replace the bones inside him.

Castiel refuses to have escaped Alastair’s hell only to die of suffocation.

He moves carefully, hissing as debris scrapes against the soft paper of his flesh. As he moves, the roots tighten, until Castiel can see a speck of light so far above him it appears to be a star, and is caught in a vice. No matter how he weakly struggles, the space only seems to constrict, forcing what little air he has from his lungs. A root, sharp and wet with dirt slides across his cheek unapologetically, and Castiel feels tears spring to his eyes.

“… _Please_.”

It stops.

And so, it is by begging and shimmying and crawling and pulling that the star eventually breaks through to the surface. The sun is burning and blinding against his flesh, the air so sweet he very nearly chokes. He is in a forest. But Castiel doesn’t take stock of himself—dislocated shoulder, mostly broken fingernails, and three broken toes—nor does he pay attention to the landscape. Adrenaline is what he’s running on, now, and Cas _bolts_.

“Please please please please please…”

He gags and spits dust from his lungs, muffles a cry when he steps on a broken pine cone. The brush is dense and thick and Castiel has no earthly idea where he’s going other than away. It doesn’t matter.

As long as no one follows him there.

The star almost sobs when he trips down a steep hill and finds himself in view of the road. He throws himself down a smaller hill, gasping out inhumane sounds of gratitude as he stumbles onto the sizzling concrete, blood rushing and ringing in his ears. Castiel turns to the sound of screeching tires.

Just in time to see the car before it hits him.

 

 

“Dean, turn it the fuck around!”

Dean is stressed for a couple reasons: first and foremost, the alien he’s unwittingly fallen in love with has been kidnapped and probably tortured, if not killed, and the last thing he said to him was basically that he wished he was dead. Second, forty-eight hours ago, there was a small earthquake and a logging plant collapsed from the inside out. Third, Dean is willing to bet his life that Castiel is the cause of that fun little act of environmental terrorism, and he’s trying _very hard_ not to think about why the trees no longer seem to be leaning any particular way. Dean is very driving around the perimeter of the fucking factory, same as he’s been doing for two hours, because he will not go digging through rubble for a corpse. Because Cas is fine.

Even if fucking Sam and Charlie don’t think so.

“Dean,” Charlie says, all soft and pitying and Dean presses on the gas ‘cause he doesn’t want to fucking hear it. He glares at the road to shut her up. Unfortunately, Sam isn’t so easily dealt with.

Because Sam is an asshole.

“I can’t _fucking_ believe you,” he hisses, pushing at his shoulder from the backseat. “That building crumbled from its foundations. They’re saying _everyone inside is dead_. You really love him? Then go get his corpse before it becomes another science experiment!”

“Step the fuck off, Sam.”

“You’re so _fucking_ deluded, you won’t even admit—”

Growling, Dean takes his foot off the gas and steadies the wheel. He throws himself into whirling around, back to the road, ignoring Charlie’s yelp as and Sam’s protests as the car swerves slightly to punch his kid brother right in the goddamn face. “ _FUCK OFF_.”

For one beautiful second, everything is quiet.

And then Charlie screams.

 

 

“ _C’mon you son of a bitch, fuckin’—open your eyes, Cas. Castiel, open your goddamn eyes!_ ”

Things are… not right.

There are parts of him that are burning as if on fire, and others that feel as cold as ice against his skin. He hurts, he thinks, everywhere… but it’s hard to be sure. He feels as if he’s simultaneously the approximate mass of a black hole and weightless underwater. Like everything is more of a hazy suggestion than an actual fact.

“ _You stupid son of a bitch, COME ON_. _I know you got a pulse, Cas. C’mon. Open those baby blues for me. Come on._ ”

Everything he hears feels it’s coming from miles away, tinny and faint by the time it reaches his ears. Briefly, he has the stray thought that he might be dying.

“ _Do not die on me, Castiel. You hear me? You’re not allowed to die! Wake up!_ ”

When Cas is jostled, pain sinks its claws into his flesh and _tears_. His throat is too raw to scream, but he thinks some pitiful, inhuman sound must rip from his throat—his body vibrates with it. Blue eyes force themselves open, pupils eating up the iris. He blinks and whimpers. Above him, there is an object blocking the sun. It’s talking rapidly.

“ _OhgodthankgodjesusfuckingchristthankgodCas_ …”

Awareness becomes a more tangible thing when he’s pawed at and held without regard for his broken body. Cas yelps at the contact. He is carefully lifted.

“Fuck, you’re so light.”

It’s Dean, but in Cas’s delirious mind, he isn’t surprised by this. Of course it’s Dean. Dean is the person Castiel has been thinking of most. This is the moment he’s been fantasizing about ever since he was captured in the woods weeks (months?) ago. Dean is the type of person to lash out in anger and to martyr himself because of his own actions.

Half-conscious, Castiel is carried into what must be the Impala. It’s cold inside—a bone-deep chill that causes his muscles to contract in protest. Dean settles them in the backseat, keeping him warm and pressing a bottle of water to his lips until the star has drunk his fill.

“…Thank… you,” Castiel rasps, grunting as he tries to sit upright and speak clearly, weak hands scrabbling at the fabric of Dean’s shirt for purchase. If the human is surprised he doesn’t wear the emotion visibly, quick to help with strong and steady hands as he pushes and pulls at places on Castiel’s torso. From the front seat, Charlie shakes her head. “C’mon, Cas, it’s… it’s nothing. Least we could do, after leaving you alone to get snatched in the first place.”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Careful,” Dean murmurs. The star makes a weak attempt at a glare.

“Don’t need… protection…”

Another human, huge in his place in the front seat, snorts at this, and Cas snarls. “Who…th’ _fuck_ r’you?”

Dean grins. “Yeah, Sammy. Who the fuck _are you_?”

Sam. Dean’s brother: Sam. Understanding, once it hits, turns the tips of his ears red. But he doesn’t have time to apologize or die of embarrassment, because Dean is grabbing a white box from under the front bench and rooting through it. “What Sammy probably meant,” Dean says mildly. “Is that we know you can protect yourself. You levelled a fucking building. It’s just…” He trails off here, staring intently at the objects in his lap. His hands and shirt are smeared with red and brown. “When you, uh. Y’know, when you—you… love someone. When they’re part of your family. They don’t gotta go at it alone. Family protects each other. We lean on each other for, y’know, support. And stuff. That’s love.”

Castiel is too exhausted to try and understand why Dean’s words have the air in the car feeling heavy. “We’re not family,” he wheezes.

“Fuck—yeah, Cas. Course we are. Jesus.”

Something heavy and sick settles itself into the pit of Castiel’s stomach. This isn’t right. He got hit by a car a-and—he should be dead. Did he level a building? Why is Dean being so nice? Dean wants him _dead_. “…You’re not real.” The realization has Castiel’s heart quickening and tears once more springing to his eyes. “You’re not—no—”

“Cas, look at me.” He carefully takes Cas’s hand and presses it to his cheek, scruff rough against the skin of his palm. “I’m real, okay? I’m—god, I’m. I’m here.” Dean moves to touch him wherever he possibly can, grounding him with the heat of his body in a way that has Castiel confused. Leaning in, his presses their foreheads together. “I fucked up real bad,” he breathes. “But I’m _here_. This is real. And I’m—I’m sorry.”

“But—”

“Just—let me explain. Please?” He opens his mouth here, as if he’s going to say more but can’t find the right words. Eventually, he bites his lip. “I regretted what I said to you the second you left. I just couldn’t… and then you were gone and we didn’t know where to look a-and. I’m sorry we took so long. I took so long. But I’m here, now, I swear. And I… fuck. Um.

“You know we’re also, uh. More than family, right? We love each other in a different way, too. I mean. I do. I… love you that way. I understand if you don’t. But I, um. Fuck. Okay. When people love each other… like we do—I do, they lean on each other extra hard. There’s a kind of, um. Mutual trust. That they’re there for each other. They’re still, um, individuals. They got their own lives and interests and friends. But they’re also. Partners. Like, in life. And stuff. They do… groceries, and eat together. It’s a give and take.

“And—and when you have someone like that, and they hurt you, it’s…” He swallows thickly. “It's real bad—I don’t have to tell you that, I guess. Um. I said some things I didn’t mean, ‘cause I was angry. I wanted you to feel like you made me feel. I didn’t—I didn’t mean it. Which isn’t an excuse!” he rushes to say. “I’m not excusing my behaviour at all. Fuck, you’re. I mean, looking at—at what happened to you. Because of me. Jesus, I—” He blinks rapidly, tears spilling over onto his cheeks. “I know you miss your home. And I know you’re stuck here and it’s the last place you wanna be. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you fell, and I… ah. Fuck. Um… I love you _so goddamn much_ , Castiel. I would give anything to take it all back.”

Castiel knows what it is to say things you don’t mean. He knows what it is to wish people hurt. He knows pain. And pleasure. Hate and love and apathy and action. He knows much, much more than he ever thought he could, living on this unassuming little planet… and therein lies the truth of it all, doesn’t it? That he has learnt.

Humanity is a cesspool and a triumph all in the same breath—and that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? Their existence is sublime; terrifying and wonderful and awe-inspiring. Forgiveness is essential to this planet, where shades of grey reign. Castiel once thought grey beneath him.

He doesn’t, now.

“You’re real,” he says carefully, aloud so it’s an anchor in his own mind. He traces the apple of Dean’s cheek and the shell of his freckled ear. Trust. Trust is important. The male trembles under the touch in a way that is visceral, and Castiel gives a shaky breath. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was—”

“No. I was also to blame. And we were unlucky.”

“But Cas—”

It hurts to shake his head, so Cas presses a filthy, shaking hand over Dean’s mouth. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. _For being blinded by prejudice. For falling headlong into the pit of my own rigidity and fear and starting the fight to begin with…_ these are all things he can explain later, when the world isn’t swimming and his head doesn’t ache. For now, he simply says. “I forgave you before they took me.”

Dean’s body seems to buckle under the weight of his words, overwhelmed as he sniffles and messily wipes at his face. “God, Cas. I. M’so fuckin’ glad you’re okay.”

Castiel… isn’t certain where they’re going. He doesn’t know how or if he’ll heal. It’s entirely possible that he never will. But no matter where he ends up, he thinks, staring at Dean’s single minded focus as he recommences rooting through the white box—as he produces bandages and antiseptic and water—Cas doesn’t think he’ll be alone. He thinks, maybe, he’ll always have someone to lean on.

After all, isn’t that the very definition of love?

 

**END**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sexual Assault Warning** : Alastair has Cas tied to a chair and gets turned on (has an orgasm) while torturing him. Alastair forces Castiel to kiss him and look down at his stained pants. It's gross.
> 
>  **Torture Warning** : Cas gets tortured. It's bloody, and it break him for a little bit. He feels hopeless.


	2. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

 

_“A blade of grass is a commonplace on Earth; it would be a miracle on Mars. Our descendants on Mars will                                                                                   know the value of a patch of green. And if a blade of grass is priceless, what is the value of a human being?”_

                                                                   ― Carl Sagan,  _Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space_

 

 

The cold is comforting—biting in a way that is foreign but familiar in its constancy. Perhaps it's for this reason that he’s agreed to wear a hat, but refused shoes. Frozen greenery crackles with the first frost beneath his crooked toes, jeans stiff and rolled to above the scarred flesh of his ankle. Jasmine and hoary stock push through the hard ground to press against his skin. His breath hangs in pale clouds amidst the starlight, and Castiel sighs contentedly.

He wears shirts, now, and pants. Jackets. Boots. Dean had pressed a sweatshirt into his hands with a kiss to his mouth, murmuring _wear it, please_ , as the star had wished him goodnight.

He still finds it hard to sleep indoors.

Outside, the sky stretches out above him, filled with millions upon millions of his people. He can see them, here—they’re far enough from any and all sources of light that there is nothing to hinder his view. He greatly appreciates this. He appreciates Dean and Sam and Charlie uprooting their lives for him in the place of simply handing him over to the people who sought to hurt him. He appreciates that they moved to a place where his oddness is respected by the locals in the place of being feared. He appreciates… everything they’ve done, really. He loves them for it.

And he loves Dean.

The way he feels when the freckled biped looks at him is a wonder every time—it defies all logic and scientific explanation and rational thought. It’s something that star feels down to the root of his heart, always. Dean built a house for them in the middle of the Northern Canadian wilds, an hours drive from the nearest village, with big windows and cozy wooden walls and a skylight above their bed so that there appears to be no house at all. He gives Castiel space when he needs to be alone, and holds him when he wakes convinced he is still trapped in a concrete box. He uses firm touches to prove his realness and is attentive and respectful of Castiel’s physical limits: when he wants touch, and doesn’t, and when it takes him someplace awful.

When he sees ghosts, Dean is there to reassure him they do not exist.

Castiel is still uncertain how to thank him.

He bites his lip as he shoves freezing hands into the pocket of Dean’s sweatshirt, humming as his shoulder blades push against the tightness of the garment—as lovely and attractive as his human is, he is slighter in places where Cas is large. Howling from the East diverts his attention, and Castiel hides his smile in the hand-knitted scarf around his neck.

Wolves.

He’s made friends with some of them, though he knows they’ll never replace Ern. They make a nice addition, though, to his slowly growing circle of friends. The bears seem to enjoy his company as well, though they tend to keep to their own territories. But they sometimes come to visit. Castiel very much enjoys when they bring their cubs. Dean is never quite as enthused by this.

Rocking on his heels, Cas squints in the dark, gaze snapping up the moment he feels a faint _zing_ of static slip across his skin. Blue eyes wildly searching the sky, he feels his heart clench to see it.

Green dances across the night sky, obscuring the stars as it suddenly flares blue-pink-violet. Yellow creeps in at the edges of the display, some patches turning white while other stay static with violently bright colour. Wrapping arms around himself, Castiel hums, chin tilted up, lips parted in a contented smile. With a deep breath, his eyes slip shut and hand extends upwards, brows raised as he feels the static crackle of electricity gather in his palm. It’s joined by others, and when Castiel’s fingers are tingling from root to tip, he allows himself to look.

Humans once thought the lights were alive. In this part of the world, they were viewed as spirits of the dead, where other cultures had them meaning the dawn of a new day or, conversely: imminent death. Touching them, now—light drawn down and pressing against his fingertips, he can see why.

From here, _Aurora_ is all-encompassing. She tugs at something in Castiel’s chest he wasn’t aware he had; some deep-seated, primal awe sewn into his physicality that makes him want to swear fealty. In a way, perhaps the lights are spirits and omens all in one. Perhaps they signify luck, or they’re a dragon, or a group of walruses. Perhaps humanity’s belief has imbued them with anything and everything they have ever believed them to be. It’s a nice thought.

“Hey.”

Castiel all but jumps out of skin, whirling around with a pounding heart to find Dean standing near him, illuminated by the light show above, hands up unthreateningly. The male smiles. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” Cas says, still breathless from his panic. Behind him, the tendril of light is pulled back to its kin. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I tried to be,” Dean shrugs. “But it wasn’t happening. The, uh, the bed was real empty. Figured I’d see what you were up to. If… that’s okay? You can tell me to fuck off if you wanna be alone.”

Castiel takes stock of himself before answering; does he want to be alone? Is he feeling tingly and tight and like any contact will make his skin crawl? That he’ll cause an earthquake if anyone gets too close? Eventually, he bites back a grin. “You missed me.”

Dean’s shoulders relax at his playful tone. “How could I miss how much you snore, Cas? That don’t make any sense.”

“You do, anyway.”

“You got no proof.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what’s that?”

They’re close, now; drawn to each other the way they’ve been since dancing in a sad little cabin in the middle of Montana. Hand moving to brush against the freckled apple of Dean’s cheek, Castiel shrugs. “You’re here,” he says simply.

“Came for the lights,” Dean teases.

“You can see them in bed.”

“Came for the bears.”

“A likely story.”

“…Was worried about you.”

This, Castiel considers. “Perhaps,” he playfully allows. “But no.”

Dean’s gloved hands move to wrap around Cas’s waist, heavy jacket soft against the thinner material of the sweatshirt as their hips bump and chests press together. “Jesus, you’re freezing.” Dean’s words travel the scant few inches between their faces and land, warm and heavy, on Castiel’s bottom lip. Cas licks them away.

When Dean kisses him, his mouth is warm and wet, his arms and hands clumsy with all the clothing he wears. Not for the first time, Cas wishes there was a way to be with him outside the finite and constraining forms of their bodies. “…I missed your snoring,” Dean breathes sweetly when they pull away, eyes still closed as he nudges their noses. Castiel feels himself beam at the words and sentiment woven into the silly confession. He hums delightedly, looking up at the lights and down at his friend. His partner. His human mate.

“Look up,” Cas says, motioning to the sky as Dean’s eyes flutter open. He does as he’s bid, a soft expression of awe blanketing his features.

“It’s beautiful.” His voice is quiet, as if not wanting to disturb.

Cas nods. “I used to have the most incredible view. Before.”

Green eyes tear away from the sky, turning solemn as Dean nods in return. As if he knows that this life is a poor substitute for the one he’d previously led. As if he knows without a doubt that he is the paltry outcome of an incredibly bad situation.

Clearing his throat, Castiel carefully pulls off Dean’s gloves, pressing their palms together as if to see the differences between them. They are mostly the same.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. His voice cracks.

Cas shrugs. “Don’t be.” His lips tug up in a radiant, toothy thing, his gaze still unwavering from Dean’s eyes and nose and mouth—from his immediacy and loveliness, drenched in the colours of the northern sky. The sky, that is vast and full above him, and that stands steady vigil over the tumultuous and wonderful goings-on below.

“The view from here is pretty fantastic, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas's Flowers  
>  **Basil** : Hatred (I'm also taking it to mean anger and frustration)  
>  **Marsh Marigold** : Despair, Grief, Sadness  
>  **Blue Periwinkle** : Early Friendship  
>  **Lilac** : First Emotions of Love  
>  **Violet** : Faithfulness
> 
> Holy hell this has been a wild ride. I've never written any sci-fi, so that was a laugh and a half, and I've never actually done a Big Bang, or completed such a long project! Thank you to Jojo and Muse, for flawlessly running this insane challenge, and thank you (again) to doekent and aceriee, who were both so freaking fantastic and wonderful to work with. Please send them some love!


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